


Summer Fires of the Weirwood King

by TheMessengerRaven



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Game of Thrones References, Post - A Game of Thrones, Post - A Song of Ice and Fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMessengerRaven/pseuds/TheMessengerRaven
Summary: A year has passed since the Night King was defeated and Daenerys Targaryen was murdered by the hand of Jon Snow. Since then, King's Landing has been rebuilt and the Six Kingdoms kept peaceful under the watchful eye of Bran the Broken. Many believe the days of endless summer have at last arrived but the Three-Eyed Raven knows better. He awaits for the final piece of the present to reveal themselves so that he may usher in a new age.A ship docks in the harbour of King's Landing; the emblem on the sails unknown to Westeros.





	1. An Ocean of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King seeks members to fill the position of Master of War, Master of Laws and Master of Whisperers in his council. A ship docks in the harbour.

Peaceful months came to pass after the events known as a Song of Ice and Fire. Winter was short lived as spring crept back into the lands of Westeros; flowers began to bloom, and the sun appeared through broken, grey clouds. The people were hoping that the time of endless summer had at last arrived as King’s Landing was rebuilt and the Red Keep stood taller than ever- now a shining pinnacle of prosperity, however long it may last. Shadows of previous tyrants have long since fallen into history and its fraying pages, except for the songs of the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Stormborn, which are sung in the streets as cautionary tales of greatness turned to madness.  
At the heart of this new age, was Brandon Stark, the first of his name and the Three-Eyed Raven, who was shortly appointed King of the Six Kingdoms by the Noble Council. Bran did his best to be a good King, though silent and often cold, the people adored him none the less. They enjoy the idea of a broken man achieving power, Tyrion had once said, it gives them hope that they too might be able to do something with their own lives. Maester Samwell also believed that it was Bran’s hushed reverence and wisdom that comforted the commoners who had suffered for so many years prior.  
However, the Small Council was still incomplete, missing a Master of War, a Master of Whisperers and a Master of Laws, and many notable applicants had travelled to the capital to present their abilities to the King. Men from smaller houses held their banners high as they rode through the streets, smiling at children that ran alongside them. A noble from the Eyrie was sent at the command of Robin Arryn himself and a potential Master of War was sailing into dock from the Iron Islands. The city had not been so alive in years.  
The children pointed out each banner and stated where each company was from, testing each other’s knowledge while admiring the knights and their sparkling clean armour. When the children near the docks saw another ship come in, this one made of black wood that was unfamiliar to their eyes, they sprinted to the edge of the boardwalks and searched for a banner. The ship itself was smaller than the others with white sails catching the breeze. On it there was a house emblem, one that the youths had never seen before, for they looked at one another, shrugging and whispering. They had seen a three headed, red dragon, but never had they beheld a lone blue dragon coiling around a golden tree. There were scared glances and mutters of the Targaryen name as the ship docked. 

The King sat in the throne room, despite his throne always moving with him, as the potential men poured into the open area, standing by their companions with heads held high. Tyrion watched with a smile, seeing the rebirth of a council he has too often seen fall apart. He will not let that happen again; the imp had promised himself the night prior whilst guzzling down a glass of wine. Ser Davos stood to the side along with the rest of the Small Council as Tyrion took his place next to Bran.  
“Your Grace, these are the best men in the country. I do not doubt two will be able to fulfil the roles required,” Tyrion adjusted his pin, shinning it with the cuff of his sleeve.  
The King leaned back, hands clasped together as his eyes wondered through the room, watching as the nearest group sent out their knight and candidate.  
“This is Lord Baron of House Strad. We come from the Riverlands, Your Grace.”  
Bran simply nodded, his eyes remaining distant and calculating as Tyrion welcomed the nobleman and his party to King’s Landing.  
“It is a wonderful time to visit the capital for the first time. The days are warm, and the town is happy.”  
“Not too long ago, we all agreed that there never was to be a King’s Landing to visit,” Lord Baron laughed dryly, “we thought there was not going to be much left of Westeros at all.”  
There were fewer chuckles in the hall, Bronn laughing but the memories of dragon fire silenced him along with Ser Brienne’s unapologetic glare.  
“Yes, well as you can see, we have tried our best to rebuild the capital to what it was,” Ser Davos sighed, he already seemed tired, “hopefully we have done a good enough job.”  
The noble nodded, looking around at the new throne room architecture. Red leaves attached to white branches wound their way up the pillars as ravens decorated the roof and beams supporting it. The place where the stained-glass lion of the Lannister family once stood had long since been replaced with an open window barred with a large Weirwood Tree forged from iron. From it, the people in the hall could see the ocean and the flock of ravens that remained nearby. Before this great view, is where the Three-Eyed Raven sat with the ghost of a pleasant look.  
“I would say you have vastly improved it; at the King’s discretion I assume.”  
Bran did like the look of his new home and as men came to speak, their voices growing distant along with those of his own council, he sat waiting and thinking of that boat he knew had docked in the harbour. That boat that did not belong in Westeros but had come none the less. An hour passed by as the audience continued, the day passing and the young King remaining silent through it all. To those he thought were unsuitable, a quick wave of his fingers in his Hand’s direction had Tyrion nodding to Maester Samwell whom crossed the name from the list. When all those who had come for the hearing had been seen, there were only three names left and the remaining members of the council had been decided. Usually, this process could take months if a King or Queen was indecisive, Tyrion would know, but he was glad to be serving a man, or what appeared to be a man, that knew what was needed from the moment he saw it. When the Hand stepped forward to announce the new members, there was muffled chatter from beyond the doors of the throne room. It caught the attention of all who were respectful enough to remain silent during the hearing as Tyrion tusked.  
“Does anyone in this kingdom have any sense of decency when it comes to important gatherings?”  
“Seems not,” Ser Davos grinned as the imp rubbed his face and stroked his beard.  
“The ‘important gathering’ is yet to happen,” Bran spoke, “it is beyond those doors.”  
The council glanced at one another, perplexed and almost hesitant as their attention turned to the soldier whom entered quickly. The room was silent once more as the clank of his armour echoed with a frazzled look on his face. He bowed to his King.  
“Your Grace, there is-.”  
“Let them in.”  
There were whispers as the soldier nodded to two others by the double doors. Their hands reached for the handles as Tyrion came closer to Bran.  
“Perhaps you should ask them to wait, Your Grace. The noblemen might consider it rude to brush them off so easily.”  
“I have listened to their words and I have chosen two council members. I will now move onto other matters.”  
From the open doorway, two bannermen, with a small company behind them, walked in dressed in black metal and blue fabric, gold embroidery bordered the edges of the material with scale like patterns. If the emblem alone on these banners did not spark a sense of panic in the heart of the ones present than the one leading them, the one whom the emblem stood for, did. A young woman, possibly no older than Bran, stood before the King. Tyrion swallowed, the gulp audible, as he recollected the past years with his late Queen. He swore, in the time that Daenerys had died and the year that has led up to this day, another Targaryen child was born with her spirit and has returned to reclaim what was hers. The solemn melody of dragons was reminisced, hummed gently in the breeze that had flown through the window as ravens cawed from the metalwork.  
Yet, as Tyrion observed closer, this girl was different. Her hair the same glowing colour of the moon that was a Targaryen trait, but her eyes were warmer than Daenerys’ ever were. A brilliant purple speckled with the light of embers gazed at Bran before taking a bow.  
“Your Grace, I am Maenyra of House Vhaenerys, and I stand before you today in need of your aid.”  
Another with the blood of old Valyria, Tyrion concluded, and incredibly blunt. Bran smiled slightly and gave a single nod that made the young woman relax in her dark blue dress and boots peeking out from underneath the hem.  
“There will be a Council Meeting later this week. That is where we shall discuss matters of assistance. You and your company are welcome to remain in the Red Keep until then,” the King said, “The three who I have selected to be the new Masters, Lord Tyrion will inform you. This audience is dismissed.”  
Loud talk began to fill the room as Tyrion turned to Bran but only watched as he was wheeled away by Ser Podrick back to his chambers, where most presumed, he stayed.  
“He really must start telling us what is on his mind,” Ser Davos sighed, “a King cannot close an audience with fifty men present so suddenly.”  
“This audience was never for those fifty men,” the Hand mumbled, his shoulders slumped as his eyes regarded Maenyra, “it was for her.”  
A raven flew in and hid amongst the support beams, interested in the visitor to Westeros. 

The foreigners made their way through the spiralling staircases, escorted by four soldiers. Maenyra listened to her companions, the two handmaids at the back especially, whisper about the King’s crippled nature and how is it he is able to make his way around his own castle. They giggled, a light hearted but cruel sound that made her eyes roll. She witnessed each member gasp at their own chambers, murmuring to one another. Maenyra sighed, her two bannermen placing down her family emblem and turning to look at the view. When at last she was brought to her own chambers, she hesitated to go in, her heart pounding as the red of the stone seemed to turn to blood.  
I must be brave, she reminded to herself, for those back home. One step through the door and already she felt as if the room was too large for her. From what she could tell, there was a bedroom attached to where she was now, which would have a private bathroom, and a withdrawing-room where a desk and fewer bookshelves resided to her right. She was up high, almost as high as the clouds, as the sea turned into a vast blanket of inky blue. All of this for herself, alone, secluded, and it was strange to feel the wind against her face so clean and play with the curtains.  
“This is how royalty lives, isn’t it, Father?” she sighed into the open air.  
Her fingers came to rest upon the stone sill as she scanned the horizon, seeing ships come in and out of view. The Iron Throne was melted, that rumour was true, and a cripple was King, but the Red Keep was not nearly as impressive as she had imagined. It was beautiful, but when she learned that it was the Targaryen conquerors who built it, Maenyra expected something more. Perhaps she should not have allowed her childhood imagination to guide her expectations of the present. The leather belt that strangled her waist grew looser as she began to undress, pulling the intricate ties so that she may breathe for the first time that day. The first few layers of her dress were discarded onto the bed. She wanted to feel the sea breeze against her skin.  
For a while, she sat by the window being lulled by the motion of the waves and staring at the birds in the sky. They circled the coast, diving at times for fish, but most always returned to the clouds. Maenyra had been raised by the sea, long days playing along the sand, chasing her brothers with stubby legs. She was shorter than them, barely reaching their shoulders but the two siblings were ten years older.  
Jaegal and Torgen Vhaenerys were the future Lords of the house, both of them tall and strong men with potential. They were kind to their younger sister, of course teasing was a definite, but they never laid a violent hand on her. She loved them dearly and Maenyra missed them just as much.  
“Next time you should remember to use your full title, My Queen. Your name alone does not mean anything to the Lords and Ladies here,” her advisor said as he entered.  
“You mean to tell me that a few extra words attached to my own name will grant me more power? I think not. Titles never last long.”  
At this he snorted, before moving to a wine decanter with glee.  
“A foreigner demanding she seek audience with the King without being invited and not even having the courtesy to introduce herself properly. Oh, how your father would be spinning in his grave.”  
“I am not in the mood to play Queen today, Valter,” Maenyra mumbled as she accepted the glass of wine the man passed her.  
“Nor it seems any day, My Queen.”  
Valter was handsome for someone born in the arms of whore and father a sailor. Wavy brown locks, greying at the roots, that caught the ocean winds and a sturdy body built like the mast of a great warship. Too often had she attracted lectures from him where she is reminded of his age. A young spirit never decays if kept alive. Though, she had noticed the wrinkles of time beginning to bore into his cheeks and forehead.  
“Promise me you will be the Queen we need on the day of the meeting,” Valter requested quietly.  
“You think me that selfish? I have no choice. Besides, it seems that the King was expecting us.”  
“That is strange. To think a cripple could run a kingdom, let alone six,” he laughed before swallowing what remains of the wine in his glass.  
“Valter!”  
“I have seen how men treat cripples back in Essos and yet here they worship them. Perhaps we should bring those unlucky few we know here. They might give them land, give them proper titles.”  
“The cripples here have earned it. Do you not know that the King stared down the Night King? Or that the Hand conspired in the murder of Daenerys Targaryen?”  
“I do.”  
“Then you best hold your tongue.”  
He shook his head and stood, his knees creaking gently.  
“I shall hold my tongue at your command, My Queen, but remember who it is that stands guard by your door tonight and will protect you from anyone conspiring against you.”  
Valter tapped the hilt of his sword and left with all the grace of a drunk commoner. Maenyra sucked in a deep breath until her lungs hurt and closed her eyes. 

It was dark when Tyrion knocked on the door to the King’s chambers. He stood uncomfortably outside amongst two guards and the tall wooden door. He shuffled on the spot, the newcomer still playing on his mind.  
“Come in,” Bran called gently.  
Tyrion took no time entering before shutting the door behind him. The King was by the window, gazing out at the moon. He never saw the young man sleep, wasn’t even sure if he needed it, but there was something about Bran that made him seem so ancient. Whether that was because his face barely moved or the wisdom of the past held at bay behind his hazel eyes, the Hand had no idea.  
“You knew she was coming,” Tyrion began, seeing there was no wine in the room.  
A grunt left his throat as Bran turned to face the imp, regard far away as ever.  
“I did.”  
“You must tell me these things, Your Grace. I am your Hand and I cannot advise you on ruling the Six Kingdoms if I do not have all of the information.”  
“What would you have done if I told you? Would you have let her come freely?”  
The smaller man sighed as the candles flickered.  
“Would you have kept her away?” the King continued.  
“I don’t know what I would have done,” Tyrion sat himself by a table, rubbing the annoyance from his face, “I just did not expect to see another Targaryen on our doorstep.”  
“She is not a Targaryen.”  
“You understand what I mean… Your Grace.”  
There was hesitation from both as the castle moaned and sound of the waves crashing against the shore echoed through the walls.  
“I do not doubt you, Bran, but is it right to bring a Valyrian descendant back into Westeros so soon, back to the people, after witnessing the outcome of the late Queen?”  
“I am the King and if people plead for help with a worthy declaration, I shall aid them. You may make your own judgements with the Council.”  
Tyrion exhaled, nodding slightly. He believes that the world is not ready for another dragon yet, even if it’s only one, but something in him knew that Bran had not said everything. By now he was used to it, the Three-Eyed Raven’s blunt words and short sentences, but glimpsing Daenerys for the first time in months in another woman sent shockwaves through his mind. Maenyra was not a Targaryen, this he knew, but he also knew nothing of House Vhaenerys- was not even aware of its existence. This did not quell his uncertainties.  
With a quiet voice, hushed into the night, Tyrion said goodnight to his King and left to slumber in his own chambers. 

Bran the Broken remained awake until the early hours of the morning, his mind flying in the East.


	2. Summer Sun, Cautious Looks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maenyra is invited to accompany Tyrion on a walk through the gardens whilst her handmaids, Rita and Ora, travel into the capital and are met with unwanted glares. Though Daenerys may be dead, the fear she instilled on the land is yet to follow her to the grave. Bran waits for the right moment to talk to Maenyra.

Bran barely ate. Ever since he found himself beyond The Wall being dragged through ice and snow, concerning himself with the matters of the past and the days yet to come, eating was not at the forefront of his mind. Even now, in the summer warmth of the South and surrounded by the wonderful scent of fresh crops, food was barely touched. Breakfast was usually a glass of wine, milk, bread with various jams, cakes and fruits and the servants watched with a vulture’s eye as their King would sit there and send them away. It took him a little over two hours to complete the meal. That was how it was this morning, the day after a dragon stormed into his court, head held high, but roar weakened with nerves. Bran reached for the poppy seed cake, the black speckles igniting his dead appetite.  
These are exciting times, he thought. His lips pulled back into an old smile, stiff with remnants of past grins of every leader before. She would be curious of her blood’s legacy here, Valyrian survivors, hopes and dreams riding on dragon back. He bit into the cake slowly, the surprising sweet flavour reminding him why he so enjoyed these treats. He sat for a while longer, sipping at the milk.

Maenyra almost cried at the sight of the breakfast laid before her, silver plates and linen napkins delivered on trays with delicious, fresh food. It had been months since she had even spied a red apple as perfect as the one on the plate. It tasted just as wonderful, dripping juice from the corner of her mouth as she reached for the wine. It reminded her of the feasts in the Golden Hall back at home in Essos. Even as she shovelled in the poppy seed cakes straight into her mouth, her handmaids behind her in the bedroom unpacking her clothes from the voyage and choosing her outfit for the day, Maenyra ate with the hunger of a thousand dragons. Breakfast lasted as long as Daenerys’ reign.  
“We might need to invest in new dresses for you. King’s Landing is warmer than expected,” Ora cooed whilst admiring a garment, “we are willing to go into town for you.”  
“Of course you are,” Maenyra mumbled, wiping her mouth, “new clothes won’t be necessary. I do not intend to keep us here for long. Once the King gives me his answer, we shall return to where ever home is then.”  
They sighed loud enough for their Queen to hear. The young girl took a final sip of the wine, licking her lips while spinning the class in her hand. The dragon had little gold to spare, unlike the old Lannister Pride, most of her services bought with sheer loyalty. The Gold Tree of her family had failed her, or perhaps its blessings were left behind when they were forced to flee from the East. The financial problems that Maenyra faced should not be wilted onto her people. Let it stay with her instead for as long as it can.  
She stood from her chair, pausing and supressing a burp, not used to a full stomach and walked to the bed where the handmaids placed a silk white dress, the tears and rips repaired. It was Maenyra’s favourite purely because it had gold dragons dancing about the waist line and hem. They seemed so happy, twisting and turning to and unheard melody, their wings flapping. The sunlight made them move, seem alive and breathing to the point where she had to touch them. She caressed their bodies and reminded herself that they weren’t real, not anymore.  
“Ora,” Maenyra spoke suddenly and the handmaid paused, “the tunic and trousers will be fine for today.”  
The white dress was quickly tucked away in the closet, away from view as the woman was dressed to her desires. Hair braided before being tied into a bun and a few rumours shared later, Maenyra was officially ready to begin her day in this foreign country. She had heard stories over her life as her father watched from afar, waiting for an opportunity to perhaps join in the mighty houses of Westeros. That chance never came. The idea of becoming a part of the ‘cursed kingdoms’ her brothers had once said never made much sense to Maenyra when she was a child. Her family was happy where they were, and they were safe. That was what mattered as her mother told them. It was father that had the ambition to move their family to where the dragons were. Now Maenyra was here leading that charge for him.  
A knock at the door turned her attention away from the mirror as Valter waltzed in, washed and refreshed. His Queen crossed her arms.  
“And here I thought you promised to stand guard the whole night?”  
“A man will protect but a man must also sleep and bath when he has the opportunity.”  
“How many girls?”  
“Only three.”  
He grinned at her, one that he knew he would get away with, as she scoffed loudly.  
“Do try to keep your cock in your pants, Valter. I don’t want any bastards left here when we leave.”  
“It would not make much of a difference, My Lady. King’s Landing is the ‘City of Bastards’ as some say,” Tyrion spoke as he entered the room before nodding to Maenyra as she walked over, “a pleasure to meet you at long last.”  
“Visitor for you,” Valter beamed as his Queen’s eyes thinned, her lips bitten.  
“It was only yesterday that I introduced myself to the world, My Lord. Do not flatter me with such a formal introduction.”  
Tyrion glanced up at her, surprise peeping through the creases on his face. The handmaids sensed a coldness in the room that they weren’t used to witnessing from Maenyra, her posture stiffening like marble as her eyes peered down at the dwarf- not in disgust they noticed. As they were scampering out of the room, the young Queen shouted after them.  
“Rita, Ora, you may go into town and pick a pretty dress for yourselves. A reward for voyaging this far with me.”  
Tyrion watched the girls gasp with joy and run out, excitement trailing after them. These cracked halls had missed the sounds of youth, of when pretty dresses and future husbands were all girls needed to worry about. Of course, these halls also remembered Cersei Lannister and wished for nothing of the sort to ever return to the Red Keep, or perhaps that was just Tyrion pushing his own thoughts onto his surroundings. Cersei was his sister, and there would always be that spark of love covered in the dust of the cellars, but she was a cruel tyrant and brought misery wherever she stood.  
“And why has the King’s Hand sought after the company of a foreigner?” Maenyra questioned, her cheeks feeling the breeze and turning to the window.  
“Exactly that. You are a foreigner, but a most important one. Another family with old Valyrian blood that the world is yet to know of,” he collected himself, “I was hoping you may be willing to accompany me on a walk through the gardens.”  
“You have questions for me.”  
“I do.”  
“And if I answer these questions, will it place me in a better position to gain your trust?”  
“There is always a chance,” Tyrion smiled.

Rita and Ora rushed through the crowded streets of the capital, their smiles shining brighter than any of the commoners’ lives at this point. Attached to their belt were little felt purses, each with two gold coins. They both discussed what dress they were to choose, sick and tired of the black ones they had to wear on the trip here. The Queen was in mourning which meant everyone else was too, much to the girls’ dislike. Now came the time for bright, fluttering dresses that would surely catch the eyes of the men here. King’s Landing was already much better than The Black Rock which had housed the surviving two members of House Vhaenerys and their loyal followers whom fled with them. It was simply that, a small island made of nothing but rock and moss, lying in between Westeros and Essos. Often susceptible to flooding which made most of the land uninhabitable. Ora had suffered from the famine, which still plagues those who remained behind, whilst Rita had suffered from disease, her left arm covered in scars when the parasitic like growths were cut out of her. The King had not been so lucky to see the day his daughter landed on the shores of the old lions, stags and dragons.  
“I’m sure the market will have tailors!” Ora considered, a spring in her step.  
“Where are the markets?”  
“I don’t know but we will find it. If not, I’m sure people will be happy to help.”  
They walked for a while longer, chatting about things that did not concern their Queen before they turned to the commoners who hesitated to entertain their prattle. They simply pointed up, down or through another street that sent the girls walking in circles. Despite King’s Landing having been rebuilt at the hands of a merciful council and King, the people weere as anxious as ever to move back into the capital- hot scorch marks still noticeable across some of the older buildings. They had heard of Daenerys’ death but the dragon, that shadow in the sky, Drogon was still alive and his location unknown. He could return any day to gobble them up. Seeing women dressed in the shadow of distant lands and sporting a steel dragon head pin left them with a horrid feeling in their stomach. One they would rather forget.  
The handmaids grew grumpy as they wandered aimlessly at the hands of the commonfolk, ducking under clothes and avoiding temperamental stares.  
“I don’t understand,” Ora sighed.  
“I do,” Rita replied in an instant, “I told you on the boat that things might be difficult. In fact, Maenyra told you that too.”  
Ora let out a frustrated gruff, her chest puffing out as they watched children run through a square where many streets collided. At its centre was a burnt and crumbling bell tower, sectioned off and yet to be rebuilt. The bell itself had collapsed to the floor, smashing the stonework. What would have been white brick had turned black where flames had licked at the surface.  
“She would never do that,” Ora mumbled.  
She folded her arms as Rita nodded her head, hand checking her belt for the purse. She ran the soft fabric through her index finger and thumb, feeling the outlines of the coins within.  
“She can’t even if she wanted to. The only dragons we have are the ones on our lapels.”  
They found the markets shortly after winding their way through a section of the city where the outcome of Daenerys’ wrath was yet to be repaired. Maybe King’s Landing wasn’t much different to The Black Rock after all; it only had a prettier coat of paint. 

Valter watched from behind as Maenyra tried her hardest to keep her attention on the small man beside her. They had already walked three rounds of the garden and in that time, Tyrion had asked little questions of importance. Simply, he asked how her family is in which she struggled to reply, her final answer being ‘I am the last one left.’ That certainly put a dampener on the mood as the imp turned to face the sailor with a struggling glance. Valter simply shrugged. It wasn’t so much that the girl felt uncomfortable in the presence of a Lannister, but rather the fact that her care got snatched by many of the pretty flowers. Too often they had to stop so she could to run her fingers across petals or leaves, bending down to smell them. Her eyes watered at the sight of the lovely little things, which did make Tyrion’s heart ache with slight adoration. It was the first few smiles he had seen on her since yesterday and it suited her much better than the stern face she attempted to keep. Whenever he saw those purple eyes shift with calculating thoughts, the Dragon Queen’s voice echoed in his head for she wore the same look whenever she commanded Drogon to spit fire. That voice was silenced immediately when Maenyra would turn to Tyrion and asked if she was allowed to pick some for her room. Valter’s arms were carrying a bunch of flowers as if it were his baby.  
“My Lady, you and I are not as different as I originally thought,” Tyrion spoke as he stood beside Maenyra as she knelt down to gaze at a blossoming bud.  
“Oh? And how is that?”  
“We are both the last of our family,” he replied, sullen in tone, “and we’ve tried for much too long to appear harder than we really are.”  
He picked a flower and held it out to her with a temperate smile. Slowly she took it, the light reflecting the bright yellow of the petals onto her skin.  
“I was expecting something else when you invited me into the gardens. An interrogation perhaps, or awkward conversation. Not this.”  
“Tougher questions concerning your people, your ideas and plans for us will be kept for the council meeting. I wanted to know who you are first.”  
“You wanted to make sure I was not like her.”  
Tyrion gulped.  
“I can assure you, not all Valyrians have war running through their veins and I pray that you listen to that. When we discuss my intentions at the council meeting, I do not want you or your people to assume the worse simply because of someone who came before me. I do not come with means to conquer.”  
“Well, you don’t exactly have enough men for that. It would be foolish to try and ransack the Red Keep with two handmaids and a sailor.”  
Maenyra laughed at this, a few strands of hair tucked behind her ear falling prey to the warm wind as Tyrion chuckled with her. A raven landed in a tree nearby, head turning to the side as it cawed. It watched a lone dragon and lion banter as they moved on along the path.  
“Perhaps if I was to try, you would do me the honour of showing me the rest of the keep.”  
“If the Lady wishes.”  
Valter begged for them to eat lunch first, complaining that his gut has been grumbling since they started. It was over a plate of various meats and bread that Tyrion learned of her proper title at Valter’s discretion- Queen Maenyra Bloodborn of House Vhaenerys. 

Maester Samwell rushed about the new library that had been built in the Red Keep since Bran’s rise to power. It was a spectacle to behold, with pillars carved into the House Animals, the Lannisters and Targaryens last to be completed. Amongst them were shelves upon shelves of history recorded and soon to be history written by Sam’s hand. All of the knowledge of Westeros was located here after being permitted to remove them from the Citadel. It was the last Tarly’s greatest achievement in his eyes. He’d spent hours designing the murals and layout of the room, it all came together into a high roofed area with multiple levels. It smelt of new wood and varnish along with ink that he had gotten accustomed to after research into Jorah’s Greyscale cure. If only his brother and father was here to see it.  
However, Sam’s mind was not amongst the books as per usual but rather the beginning of a new one. He was cautious about Maenyra’s sudden appearance in Westeros, but it wasn’t unbelievable that Aegon and his sisters were the only ones to survive the destruction of Valyria. He scratched his cheek, wondering if it would be alright to put the two houses together under the same section, or if Vhaenerys would need its own shelf. He hoped it did. It meant funding for the library which meant Sam could tease Bronn for a little while longer.  
The young Maester was reading a passage on Balerion the Black Dread when the familiar voice of Tyrion rung through the air, followed by a feminine gasp.  
“And lastly, the House Library. Everything known of every House can be found here,” the Hand informed, marvelling at the display.  
“I have never seen anything like it.”  
It was the new girl and Sam sprung up from his chair, racing to the bannister of the second level.  
“Hello, welcome,” he called sheepishly as purple eyes fell on him.  
“That’s Maester Samwell. He runs it.”  
“And designed it,” the man answered after Tyrion with a grin before coming down to meet them.  
“My home had a library but nothing like this. I did not realise Westeros cared so much for its history still.”  
“There are some things we’d rather forget, but it’s important to remember where we come from.”  
“Stops us from mistaking bastards for Kings and Kings for bastards,” Tyrion sighed.  
He left the woman in the hands of Sam, managing to persuade Valter to join him for a glass of wine. Maenyra gave him permission to indulge himself, instructing him to keep his pants on tonight, for her only advisor was never too good with books. The old sailor still struggled to read for it was only the stars and the fewer names on a map that mattered. There was no need for him to read of journeys when he could be on one. Sam lead her through the library, up flights of stairs, through bookshelves and squished hallways but it was all enjoyable for the girl none the less. It was when they got to the core of the archive, the heart, that she truly stood in awe of what she saw. Aside from the large heart, that was alive with yellow flames as the sun began to set outside, a long wooden map of Westeros was elevated and carved with intricate designs. It stretched from Dorne all the way up to Winterfell and The Wall. This way, she did not have to travel to see the country at all for it was all here, the names of kingdoms inked with gold and crafted with loving care.  
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered running her hand over the smooth wood.  
“Finest map in the Six Kingdoms, but that’s not all. Watch,” Samwell moved to the side where a metal lever, small enough to be gripped with one hand, was hiding.  
He began to wind it and from the surface, castles began to emerge and build upwards from inside the wood. Her eyes lit up, witnessing King’s Landing and the Red Keep grow before her followed by Dragonstone and Casterly Rock. Shortly, all the castles were on display.  
“A miracle,” Maenyra complimented.  
“Just good craftsmanship, My Lady.”  
She decided in that moment, with Sam’s cheeks flushed red with compliments, that she liked this young Maester. He was soft for a man but not in the way many have teased him for. The world needed warm men like Samwell Tarly so that when all goes to shit, as it often has in the past, the world has somewhere to run too. Straight into the arms of a man who can sympathise and isn’t afraid to empathise as well. Jaegal was very much like that, he had similar eyes to Sam, and she couldn’t tell you the amount of times she flung herself into his hugs after one of her toys broke or she lost a game against Torgen. That was all that really mattered back then; toys and games. Her vision grew blurry.  
“Maester Samwell,” Maenyra began.  
“Sam, please.”  
“Sam,” she breathed, wiping her eyes, “would I be able to do some research? I know the day has passed but-.”  
“No, go right ahead! I think the King would scorn me if I closed the library at night. He comes in here sometimes. Sits himself by the fire and looks to the past for answers.”  
She nodded, Bran’s stoic face coming to mind. This place seemed appropriate for a man like the King; hidden, silent and away from all those Lords that cry for his approval. She thanked Sam for his time before climbing a staircase to the Targaryen section of the library where books were bound in black leather with crimson material. There was a lone table with a single candle upon it, ink, quill and spare parchment ready to be used. The candle flames danced here, their tips pointing towards the ancestors printed onto paper- immortalised.  
These were the lucky ones, Maenyra gathered as she ran her hands over the dusty spines of the aged books, you got your chances and you squandered them. She began with Aegon, the conqueror of Westeros, and as she read page after page of Targaryen history, enamoured with the magic that they bought, further and further did she feel from being a Valyrian. The sense of her ancestry was long lost in her family for their blood carried no significance anywhere, and their dragon, Azorion, died during Valyria’s fall. How many times she wondered what she would do if she had a dragon. Maenyra would never leave its back, she’d fly everywhere with her friend without a care in the world. When you’re in the sky, so high that even a dragon looks to be the size of a bird, and soaring against the moon or sun, what could stop you? What could touch you? What could harm you? Nothing…  
If Maenyra had a dragon she wouldn’t be here reading about them. The flame from the candle next to her whispered promises of lands with stunning coastlines made of sand that was black and smooth. They were her brothers’ whispers of stories from books they read to her. They swore they would travel there one day, Torgen arguing that all kingdoms in tales must come from somewhere- inspiration always needs a muse.  
Maenyra didn’t notice the tears that slid down her cheeks until they hit the paper with a faint patter. She did not move to wipe her eyes, did not move at all, until she reached for a piece of parchment and with the quill, began to draw patterns and lines across it. Her brothers taught her how to make a paper dragon that would glide through the air, they used to have competitions to see whose could glide further. She tore the edges where needed and folded others until it resembled the shape of the beasts. The ink had run a fair amount when she was finished and threw the paper dragon into the stale air. It glided around the corners, as graceful as the real thing, before flying over the bannister and onto the ground level. Maenyra didn’t follow it as she laid her head down on the table, aching with a torture only a daughter and sister can feel, as she hid amongst her arms and cried. Maenyra fell asleep there, amongst the dead and those remembered, not noticing when the King entered the library and requesting if he could be taken to the Targaryen section. When the guards had carried him up the stairs, placing him comfortably back into his wheelchair, Bran motioned for them to leave. He saw her dreaming, undisturbed by his arrival. 

Wordlessly, those deep brown eyes traced the outline of her face and soft hair. The Three-Eyed Raven has seen women, Bran has seen women and remained unmoved but Maenyra was something else.


	3. The Sunken Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maenyra dreams of the ocean and the shadows that lurk below. Her brothers call for her from the depths.

Brienne rarely slept nowadays, choosing to patrol the keep in her armour and sword at the ready. She never knew what she was looking for, she never knew what it was that called her out under the peaceful starlight, but she did not decide either to ignore it. Without the resonances of the population of King’s Landing working hard to rebuild and forget or the chuckling servants in the corridors, the melody of the water rushing up against the shore echoed in the night. Brienne had discovered a new found love for the moon in all her silvery glory. When the Night King was marching South with his army, Brienne dared to not peer at the maiden of the sky, cursing her from the safety of Winterfell. Yet now, with the realm in a state of peace, the Night King no longer a threat, she would spend hours smiling at the twinkling stars and apologised to the moon several times over. However, even still it was not the appreciation of a clear night sky that lead Brienne out of her chambers. Deep down, somewhere that even she herself cannot reach, buried under memories displaced, the knight knew what exactly left her roaming the grounds.  
If Podrick was still awake, he would sometimes join his mentor for these walks. Often, they walked in silence, him knowing better than to break a comfortable hush, other times they would discuss plans for the guard or take a step back into the past. However, he knew that Brienne was never truly listening, her eyes filled with the stars, but he feared that if he wasn’t with her on the nights she seemed the most reserved, his mentor and great friend would keep walking until she found herself at The Wall. He would even joke, saying that ‘now her watch begins’ before Brienne left for the night. She would smile slightly at that, the glint in her eyes that was present during the day would return for a moment, but it would fade just as quickly. The Small Council wandered if it all had something to do with the lion she fell in love with; Podrick figured it most likely did, but Brienne was not the only one to roam at night…

Maenyra swam with her brothers in the ocean water- crystal clear with the sunlight shimmering on the surface. If you peered downward, you could see their coral reef, teeming with life and colour. The heat of summer was carried on the breeze and across her cheeks as she watched Torgen dive down once more. When they sunk into the shallows, running their hands over the rocks and shells they found, Maenyra felt as if they were in a whole other world- a place where man could not get to. It was only for the three of them. Swimming is the closest thing I will ever have to flying, she would often reason with herself. When she came up for air once more, happy puffs as she moved hair away from her face, she noticed that her brothers did not follow. The coastline of her home had disappeared and an intimidating open sky above her. Although, a sense of panic did not take her as she merely dove back down into the blue, thinking Torgen and Jaegal had found something. She continued to swim, following the fish but not noticing as the water turned colder. Maenyra called out for her brothers, no bubbles coming from her mouth as she reached the ocean drop-off. She peered down into the realm where even the sunlight could not touch. Open, vast and unknown. No ocean floor beneath your feet, only the current and you.  
‘Maenyra, what are you waiting for?’  
‘We are down here.’  
Without another moment of doubt, she swam off the edge, witnessing as the shadows reached for her but in the way a mother opens her arms for her child. The colourful world above her fell away, the fishes fleeing from the darkness as coral turned to sharp rock. She realised she was no longer swimming, but sinking, her lungs burning for air, yet she did not struggle. She did not know for how long she descended; one could even call it falling, but the world turned bleak around her. Instead of her brothers calling out for her, it was a creature but not like ones she had ever heard. It was young, a baby possibly, with a roar louder than that of lions and bears. At times it even squeaked, gurgled or rumbled. Despite the unfamiliar, fear did not become Maenyra as her feet landed in soft sand, undisturbed in the depths. The humming of the world could be heard and the cracking of rocks, but the darkness remained dead. Maenyra called out for her brothers but no voice passed her lips. That creature hadn’t ceased crying, reminding her of how she used to scream for her mother when she was a child. It sounded so lonely, so helpless and yet Maenyra could not see it. She walked along the sea floor, slowly so that her eyes could adjust. She figured she was on the right path, the crying getting clearer. There was another voice that began to cut through the desperate pleas, the sound of a little boy.  
‘Mother! Mother, where are you? I want to go home. Mother!'  
Maenyra felt as though she was weeping but her tears mixed with the freezing water. She stopped, realisation hitting her in a single blow as, despite the blackness suffocating everything, a mound of sand with a skeleton appeared before her- only bright enough to make out the shape. Maenyra thought herself a fool for any person, whether commoner or royal, could recognise the distinct shape that laid before her. It was a dragon, dead on its back and wings splayed across the sand. All that remained of the magnificent beast were the bones. It was huge, its unhinged jaw capable of grabbing her and swallowing her in a single gulp. Maenyra was breathless, quite literally as she stepped forward once more, wanting nothing more than to touch it. Oh, how it would have been beautiful in life, she thought to herself. What colour had the scales been? Was it fast? When she drew closer, she noticed two long, wooden rods laying with the beast and half covered in sand.  
“Hush,” she finally spoke, a dying whisper as she placed her hand against the skull.  
The screeching and crying ended with the gentle stroke of her fingers. It was in that small moment where Maenyra had been able to reach out and touch her ancestry, did her lungs finally give way.

Bran yawned quietly, the morning sunshine reaching through the windows of the library and warming the back of his head. If he was not bound to a wheelchair, he would say that his legs were stiff from sitting for so long. He had waited for Maenyra to wake up and as she stirred in her spot at the desk, face still pressed into her arms and the history book beneath her, Bran retreated from searching through her history. He went as far as he felt he needed to, three years prior to her arrival here. The Small Council will have pity, the young King supposed, how could they not? Maenyra rose from her sleep, brushing the hair from her face, cheeks red, and locked eyes with Bran. A frown met a blank stare as he clasped his hands together.  
“Good morning, my Lady,” Bran said.  
She looked around, eyes still flickering between dreams and reality as she stretched like a cat, her back clicking back into place. Dragons do not wake as gracefully as they say in books.  
“Your Grace, how long have you been here?”  
“As long as I’ve needed to be,” he paused, “although, it is not as if I can leave on my own accord.”  
He had not joked in years, those were not the words of the Three-Eyed Raven, neither were they of the King. Bran shuffled slightly, his humanity stirring in his heart before churning under her gaze. Maenyra was a mess. Bits of stray hair framing her face and eyes withered with slumber, but it was a sight he did not often see. There was something humbling about it. His jest was received with a small smile as she closed the book that had managed to avoid any drawl.  
“I thought I would find you here. Amongst the dead dragons of old Westeros,” Bran looked around, his blank gaze moving above Maenyra to the depiction of Daenerys and her three dragons. She followed his sight, shift around and looking up the last true Targaryen. She had missed the chiselled mural above the bookshelves last night but in her defence, it was not her focus. Yet there was something unnerving about the late queen watching her sleep.  
“They are still alive in stories and dreams,” she replied.  
The three dragon children danced around their mother’s hands much like how the dragons on her white dress did the same. It was hard to believe they were real, even if it was for a few short years. She had held so much hope, wished every night upon every star, that she would get to meet just one.  
“They are beautiful creatures,” Bran mumbled.  
“You’ve seen them?”  
Bran nodded, “Drogon and Rhaegal when they came to Winterfell with their mother. I never saw Viserion when he was living, only when the Night King had made him one of his own.”  
He watched her shoulders drop, her head turning to the wooden floor as fire flooded her violet eyes. She swallowed harshly and sighed.  
“And now they are all dead. We would hear stories of the Mother of Dragons, how she raised them as if they came from her womb. My father’s face when he heard that some lonely girl managed to hatch petrified dragon eggs, I will never forget it. Her conquering Slaver’s Bay, word that she was going to return to Westeros and reclaim the Iron Throne… And when she did, she only had one dragon left. What mother puts thrones and titles before her own children, before the greatest miracle that this world has seen in decades?” Maenyra debated, her hand pointing towards the dragons, reaching for them as if to pull them from Daenerys’ hands.  
Bran remained silent, studying how she huffed in frustration. He recalled the Dance of the Dragons, the civil war erupting in House Targaryen. He wondered, if only for a moment, that if Maenyra had of made herself known a year ago and travelled to Westeros for the aid she seeks, would she have had the courage to face Daenerys and ridicule her the way she did now? Would she have stared a dragon down and climb upon its back? Would she have taken one for her own or all three? Daenerys’ mind was not on Drogon when she took King’s Landing, even after the death of her other two sons. Pessimism had blinded the Dragon Queen along with rage in her final hours, the ash concealing the devastation of her actions and her own ambitions whispering to her that she had liberated the people. Bran contemplated about how far Daenerys was willing to, how much of the world she was willing to burn. The further she would have followed that path, the more Drogon would have become a pawn in her great game than a son.  
“I apologise, your Grace.”  
“Why?”  
“I’ve heard a lady should not speak ill of the dead.”  
Bran smiled at this, sincere like his father’s before his venture South. Maenyra does not realise that he could care less about protocol, the King himself not even caring for being King- only desiring the position to protect the realm. Everything else is unnecessary to Bran.  
“Lessons are to be learned from the dead. Remember what you have said this day about the girl and her dragons,” the King affirmed, one hand resting on the smooth wood of the table.  
“Why does it matter? I shall never have a dragon of my own. You should not fill a woman’s head with hope… Your Grace. It is cruel.”  
“A dragon still lives.”  
Maenyra’s eyes snapped to his, hope and wonder sparking within them as she leaned forward. Her fingers pulled at the edges of the book cover.  
“How? We heard that they had all been killed.”  
The candle that sat on the desk, after a full night of burning with its wax melting and dripping onto the table finally came to the end of its line. The wick submerged and the flame went out. A breath was caught in Maenyra’s throat. Her stomach flittered with butterflies and Valyrian blood awakening.  
“Would fate kill the greatest miracle as soon as he is born?”  
His gaze was distant once more, the same she had witnessed in the Great Hall. The conversation was finished on nothing more but an expecting look from the King and the days of dragons looming over Maenyra’s head. From the sun, fate lingered patiently.

When Maenyra did returned to her chambers, yearning for a stretch on her bed to hopefully get rid of the ache in her neck, she stood by the sill for several minutes. The curtains swaying around her as she gazed to the horizon. One still lived. The sky still belonged to the dragons, no matter how far or how close Daenerys’ last son flies. From across the room, her bed beckoned her with soft sheets and pillows. Though marriage had not crossed her mind, to Maenyra the bed would make a suitable husband but before she was able to take his offer, Rita and Ora burst into her chambers. Their flushed faces and bright eyes matched the stunning silken blues and yellows of their new dresses.  
“Maenyra! Where were you? We were so worried,” Ora panted, rushing up to her and cupping her cheeks.  
“I was in the library, my friends. With the King.”  
“All night? You mustn’t do that again. We thought you had been attacked or worse!”  
“Murdered,” Rita sighed, closing the door before prying Maenyra out of Ora’s strong hug.  
The dragon in the room rolled her eyes with a grin, but it was true, a fact she never really had to think about before. The attack on her family was a surprise and The Black Rock was completely abandoned apart from them. Here, she was within reach of death at every door. Surely the King, who had been so welcoming already, would not have let her so quickly into his walls if he did not trust her. Maenyra shook the thought from her mind, grinning at the two girls.  
“Is that a smile?” Ora gasped.  
Rita faced her friend, eyes wide, “it is!”  
“What has our Queen smiling again?”  
“She was with the King.”  
The two handmaids started asking questions, breathless with a light in their eyes that could mimic a candle flame. Happiness swam in the air and before Maenyra knew it, she was dressed and dragged down stairwells, arm in arm with Rita and Ora. It was around midday when she had awakened, not realising how loud her stomach was grumbling until her friends belittled her for skipping breakfast. They were still her handmaids and needed to make sure she was fit and healthy, but Maenyra also knew it was an excuse for them to have a second round of food.  
They waltzed into the feasting hall, finding it filled with guards and servants bustling with joyful conversation. From across one of the great tables, Brienne and Podrick noticed the arrival of the young girls. They shared a look before sitting straighter to attention as they both turned to the new Masters on the council. Tucked away in the corner of the hall, on a separate table near a window, Lord Baron, Ser Amish and Ser Gillish sat drinking mead and gobbling up chicken and bread. The three men, though deep in talk between themselves, caught sight of the one who had interrupted the King’s audience without a second thought- her silver hair reflecting the light of the sun like a mirror. Three sides of the realm took rest and ate in the same hall. A woman built of Valyrian blood, the memory of the Targaryens, the Lord Commander clad in gold and her fellow knight whom have sworn to protect the innocent, and the harbourers of hatred towards dragons, men with steel swords and eyes sharp like a Scorpion bolt.  
Brienne, during her nightly rounds, had heard Ser Gillish and Amish speaking in the Godswood the night Maenyra settled here. Words that painted the last member of House Vhaenerys in a vicious light were chanted in murmurs. Brienne wished to confront them there and then, but Tyrion would know better than she how to handle men like these, especially since they had just been elected to be part of the Small Council.  
“Showing a distrust amongst our men this early could send the wrong message to the people,” the Hand had said, “men who are scared talk. As long as they only do that, their opinions can change. It is once they start fighting we should be worried.”  
Brienne knew nothing about Maenyra, aside from her astounding pretentious behaviour towards royalty that was something to be strangely admired, so in the woman’s eyes, for now, she was to be treated like every other woman- with respect. She had commanded her guards to think likewise. A meal was placed before Maenyra, Rita and Ora consisting of bread, cheese, salted meat, fish and apples. She gobbled it up, dwelling on the bones of the fish. Last night’s dream still laid heavy in her mind, much like Tommen’s crown when he was King. Her friends continued to gossip, asking her if she had intentions of marrying the King which she shut down immediately. There was something about Bran that was unnerving to her, hiding behind his soft face and calm attitude. It was as if he was a vessel of some kind, a body for something that wasn’t human, but such thoughts were ridiculous.  
“He is quite handsome,” Ora smirked, biting into the bread, “from what I’ve seen of him.”  
“And your age, Maenyra.”  
“I’ve already told you. I am not here to marry the King. There is a difference between asking for aid and making a strategic political move to gain favour,” she huffed, looking at both girls dead in the eye, “besides my priorities lie elsewhere.”  
Seconds passed where the crunching of Rita biting into her apple was heard.  
“Do you think it still works?”  
Maenyra and Rita frowned, leaning away from her in confusion.  
“You know! His,” she pointed down to her lap which caused Rita to sigh loudly, rubbing her eyes.  
“Ora! Not here,” Maenyra scolded.  
“But I’m curious. Why would they make him King if his dick doesn’t work?”  
“By the light of the seven, please never say that again,” Rita mumbled.  
“Fine. Why would they make him King if he cannot father children?”  
Maenyra went to shrug, for it was a valid question, but three shadows blocked the warm light flooding in from the windows. There, standing tall before them, were the new members of the Small Council. Their swords remained by their waists, shivering with anticipation for another battle.  
“It is Maenyra, is it not?” Lord Baron asked half-heartedly, “the one who interrupted the King’s audience?”  
“It’s ‘my Queen’ to you,” Rita urged, dropping the apple onto the plate and turning to face the men, brows meeting in a glower.  
Maenyra placed a hand on her knee and breathed in deeply, allowing the air to fill her lungs until her ribs hurt.  
“I did not know the little girl had a title. She did not announce herself that way in court. May I beg for your forgiveness, your highness?”  
“It matters not what you call me. I take no offense to it.”  
“You should’ve heard the last Targaryen to pass through these halls,” Ser Gillish snorted, scratching at his pointy brown beard, “she collected titles, tried to build herself into something greater than any man. Do you know what happened to her?”  
He bent down slightly, deciding to watch Ora as he pressed his lips to Maenyra’s ear.  
“The realm fucked her, and she took it like the whore she was,” he whispered.  
His breath smelt of fish and his lips chapped against the shell of her ear. She shivered, feeling a chill run right down her spine as she breathed in once more.  
“I am glad I am no Targaryen,” Maenyra answered but her voice faltered.  
Their shadows, that same darkness that had swallowed the dragon and herself, now threatened to devour her once more, seeping into the crevices of a child whose skin was yet to be made of ivory. She continued to hear their voices, and she listened, but somewhere inside of her, she was sinking once more, and she did not fight it. Rita and Ora were quivering, she could feel them beside her.  
“Good to see you all welcoming the newcomers to the realm,” Brienne smiled but her words were edged with anger.  
Their heads turned to the towering woman, her hair kissed by sunlight and face like marble. Maenyra had seen her briefly two days prior, standing beside the King, but her eyes had not deceived her. The woman was taller than any man she had met- even taller than her father.  
“Ah yes, we were just telling Queen Maenyra about the lovely beaches we have. Good for a late-night stroll,” Ser Amish winked, charisma flaring with his youthful look.  
At this, the Lord Commander’s eyebrows raised but her lips did not even twitch.  
“Wonderful but I do believe the Lord Hand is expecting you all soon in his tower. He wishes to finalise some topics before the council meeting tomorrow.”  
The three men bowed their head in respect to the women, nodding to Podrick before traipsing off down the hall, the clack of their boots resounding off of the walls. Rita growled as Ora sighed, rubbing her cheeks and eyes. She sniffed as she held back tears, not daring to show weakness to such a petty display of intimidation. Maenyra remained still, gripping at the knees of her friends beside her. Yes, they were right about security and murder. From now on, she will not let Valter leave her side nor she his. The feeling of drowning remained, her lungs burning and throat tightening.  
“Are you alright?” Brienne knelt down before them, the marble breaking to show worry.  
Rita and Ora nodded slowly turning to Maenyra who was as frozen as The Wall, a cold wind blowing through her thoughts. I am no dragon, she held, for I cannot even bare my teeth to the smallest of men.  
“My Queen, perhaps it is best you return to your chambers,” Brienne suggested, hushed and low.  
Podrick offered Ora a handkerchief, an act she will think of later in bed. She dried her tears with it and the ones Maenyra did not even know were hers.  
“Please, I am no Queen,” the little girl whimpered.


	4. Tapestry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hour of the council meeting has come. Maenyra is unsure of her abilities to appeal to its members- Lord Baron, Ser Gillish and Ser Amish still weighing heavy on her thoughts. The future is set in motion.

Maenyra was forced to wait, to sit still in the corridor whilst the Small Council discussed matters of the realm past the wooden door before her. Their voices muffled, sometimes raised and other times the distinct sound of laughter. This was her moment but a moment that should really be led by her father. This was his dream, to appear before the minds of Westeros and pledge allegiance to the throne. He wanted what the Targaryen’s had- a legacy- one maybe filled with dragons. Maenyra witnessed from behind trees and by his side how her father hesitated to take action for every step he took forward with the right call, something that would spoil his plans would force him to leap backwards. It was a constant push and pull, a tension he created within the family. He promised his sons that they would be Kings in Westeros with miles of land that stretched to the horizon and Maenyra was to marry a handsome prince and give him pretty children. Her father made it sound like a country of dreams but as the children grew older, their minds becoming wiser, they hesitated ever wanting to follow him. The Game of Thrones in Westeros was a sick and ruthless cycle that warped someone's sense of right.  
‘One day we shall join our fellow Valyrians, my children,’ her father had smiled, ‘and we too shall find our place in the world.’  
Those words rung in Maenyra’s head as she paced back and forth, ringing her hands that had become clammy. She’d take any opportunity to leave, run back to the harbour, board her boat and sail far away from this place. Naturally, these were the nerves speaking, her father’s wishes and suffering people forcing her to engage in politics she knew very little of, but the events of yesterday still travelled through her mind like a stormfront. She could see it, the three shadows forming against the grey clouds, their snide remarks like thunder. Lord Baron and his minions were also beyond that door, biding their time until she steps in to tear her apart. The feasting hall had been a gentle caress of the vulture’s claws, just enough to break the skin of her face. The air smelt stale, filled with dust drifting about in a lull.  
Valter gripped her shoulders harshly, forcing her to stay glued to the spot, “will you stop. You’re going to work up a sweat and you already look bad enough.”  
At this she snarled, her eyes thinning towards her advisor as he released her. However, it was the truth. The red around her eyes was yet to disappear, surrounding those gleaming violet fields in cooling lava, and her cheeks remained flushed like an apple. Her hair, often mistaken for precious strands of silk, looked as though it had the texture of hay as it poked out around her head like some sort of makeshift crown. Valter was gazing down at a child, the ten-year-old daughter of his closest friend. He sighed, the dress she wore was the only thing reminding him that she was a young woman- no baby.  
“Mae, listen to me please,” he cupped her cheeks, brushing away the tears that had begun to fall and thinking her nickname might offer some comfort, “I will not lie to you. This meeting marks the beginning of your life as a woman and I know your father would have preferred it through other means. We are not given the luxury of choice, fate does that for us, but you have every right to feel this way. You can cry and you can wilt but never in front of those you must be strong for. Prove to them, that despite your tender age, you are willing to fight for what is yours.”  
Maenyra shook her head, feeling this morning’s breakfast of two bites of bread rise into her throat. His hardened hands were cold against her cheeks, but it was a welcome feeling none the less. Those defining wrinkles snuggling together under his eyes creased further as he smiled gently. He was right, most of the time he was. This entire matter was not for her, it never was. It was for Valter, for Rita, for Ora and all those still stuck on The Black Rock waiting for a new home. They were desperate for salvation, turning to the last scrawny dragon to lead them to it. A dragon takes what they desire, protecting their hoard with the power of a thousand armies, but Maenyra did not want Westeros. She did not desire Essos either. She didn’t know what she wanted.  
“What is mine? I have nothing.”  
“You have us. You know what we are willing to do for you. That is how it has been and how it must be. All we ask, all I ask is that you give us a home,” Valter whispered lowly, “protect us.”  
Her gaze fell upon the door, her gaze travelling through the ridges in the wood before swallowing hard. 

Bronn squinted as he let out a sudden laugh following Tyrion’s disappointed reaction to one of his jests. The man of Blackwater Bay was still holding his case of funding the construction of new brothels which was yet to begin. Every council meeting heard this hopeful suggestion and every time the Hand ended up the butt of a joke, Bronn leaning back with his dirty grin. The fact that his King was present this meeting did not change a thing. Ser Gillish, who was the new Master of Laws, had supported the man, informing the group that men who are indeed satisfied in every desire, will not search to break the law. Bronn appreciated that.  
“Shall we move on?” Tyrion suggested, grabbing a new stack of papers, “we should not waste the King’s time with talk of debauchery.”  
Those with their thoughts in the wellbeing of the land agreed, Bran looking over his council. The few closest to him were his newer council members, their armour glittering in the warm daylight and Lord Baron looking incredibly pleased. He was an older man, now entering his late forties, but his scraggy stubble and thin eyes made him look ancient. His skin had already sagged around his throat, drooping like a rooster’s wattle. It was a most unappealing look but then again, vultures aren’t designed to be pretty creatures.  
“How has your family settled into Lake Spires, Lord Baron?” Bran spoke up, cutting through Davos’ brief summary of the status of the royal navy.  
Everyone turned to their King as the Lord paused, taking in a breath that pushed out his larger gut.  
“Yes, very well, my King. A perfect place to raise a blossoming family and aid the throne. It is a most gracious gift from the Lord Paramount.”  
“It is. The spires have not been occupied by a Lord for many years now. Perhaps you can give life to those old walls.”  
“There is a saying in the Riverlands that all the secrets of man will end up in the trees surrounding Lake Spires. Your uncle thought that it would be only right to have the Master of Whisperers rule over those trees.”  
His teeth were slightly yellow, just enough to turn Bran’s stomach. Tyrion said that he hoped Baron would be a good King for the whispers in the leaves, the men agreeing. Brienne tightened her jaw, keeping it shut with disgust.  
“Have the trees told you anything about the Beggar Queen that has washed up onto our shores?” Ser Gillish snickered.  
“That leads us onto our next point of business,” Tyrion began, eyes tracing his signature on the paper below his hand, “Queen Maenyra.”  
There was a shift in the atmosphere, some leaning forward to rest against the table and others leaning back into their chairs. Both pieces of furniture creaked loudly, groaning about the change in conversation.  
“If I may speak first,” Gillish opened, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, “I do not think we should give her request any further thought. This is not our problem.”  
“I concur. I will not allow another Valyrian to ruin this country,” Ser Amish nodded sternly, “I will not allow another Valyrian to lay claim on what is not theirs but ours.”  
Hums followed as Davos inhaled sharply before bringing his chair closer to the table. He had lived in Dragonstone for some time, the place reeked of dragons and begged for its builders to return some day. Stannis Baratheon may have made a home in the rocks, but it never sang like it did when Daenerys took her place on the stone throne. It remained dreary but it never looked more comfortable than with a Valyrian in its halls. Due to this, Davos believed that the fortress had a calling to those of the same blood, summoning them back with memories of previous triumphs and great Kings. Even Jon, despite having a proper reason, was too called to Dragonstone- a half Targaryen. It was no surprise that Maenyra, this little girl, was now standing amongst their court. Davos only had not expected it so soon.  
“Your fears a warranted but she has come asking for help, not war. From my experience, warlords do not plead.”  
“Also, if were to accept to the Queens request, it would prove to our people that we are good men. We show mercy. A rare commodity in the past,” Tyrion suggested, looking at Gillish and Amish.  
“And if mercy blinds us to her plans, we would have invited an enemy into our walls,” Baron countered easily, “we do not know enough, and I refuse to remain ignorant.”  
Brienne stated, “then let the Queen speak for herself. It is only right.”  
Bran nodded with a gentle smile. 

Maenyra tried her best to remain stoic, hide the panic of a child in her quivering lip, but her bones felt like mud as her knees buckled. She could tell she was struggling to stand upright as Valter waited beside the door. Grasping her hands behind her back, the fingers slipping due to sweat, she avoided the unwelcome stare of her three tormenters. The moment had arrived and her soul drifted away, up into the clouds as her mind became numb. The fate of her people was scattered on the table along with quills, books, paper and gold coins. Brienne noticed Maenyra’s rigid posture, the way her shoulders cramped upwards and eyes looking directly at the table. She felt pity, seeing a young Sansa Stark by the King, but remained seated; smiling at her in an attempt to calm the trembling girl. Whatever had given Maenyra confidence when she arrived had shattered, Tyrion remaining silent as he witnessed Gillish lean into Amish with a sneer. At that, the young Queen breathed, feeling the air pass through her. She imagined she was anywhere but here- swimming or flying. The sunken dragon came to mind. That will be me if I do not make it through this, Maenyra assumed, I know help will not come for me, but I will not die in the depths either.  
“For the sake of the records, please announce your full title and your place of origin to the council,” Tyrion spoke whilst Samwell flipped to a new page in his small journal.  
A beam covered his face knowing that this instant was the first step towards the future- Bran also knowing this fact. His gaze never left her as she stood beside him. She looked so frightened, so unsure, as he often felt beyond The Wall. It was all too familiar for him and he hated seeing it on Maenyra. This was to be her home, Bran decided almost immediately in the library. He did not notice how his left hand had slowly crawled towards her, resting on the arm of his wheelchair.  
“I am Queen Maenyra Bloodborn of House Vhaenerys. I have sailed to King’s Landing from The Black Rock, a small island located in the North of the Narrow Sea. However, my home was in Reefward, a coastal village in Essos,” she answered, her voice shaking only slightly, surprising the council.  
Valter smiled proudly, relaxing in his boots as hope flourished about his heart.  
“And why are you here today?”  
The air drew thin as she was taken back into her memories, pulled in like a riptide as she remembered the blood and fire. The clanging of swords and screams of women and men. The heat was unbearable and yet through it all, she could still hear the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing onto rocks. That reef that was only for and her brothers. The storm battered them, destroyed most of their ships and plunged her loyal commoners into the deep, dark blue. The look of rotting flesh, being eaten by black strands hiding under the skin. Why was she here today?  
“My people have been through a great deal these past months. We have lost many to rage, storm, disease and hunger. The Black Rock is not kind to us so all I ask of you is that you give them a chance at life and spare some resources for their survival.”  
Maenyra did not wish to come across desperate but it was the truth. The children who climbed over sharp stones were forced to start eating the algae in between rocks for meals. Pregnant mothers were barely able to stand and had gone gaunt with hunger. Half of the island had to be quarantined after the plague outbreak.  
“A worthy request but not a simple one to fulfil. We, the Six Kingdoms and the North, are still rebuilding from recent misfortunes ourselves. The trials you mention make you no different to anyone else. We all must suffer as people and I see no profit from helping you. We would be using our resources, that are reserved for our people, to help yours,” Baron rationalised all too quickly, “you are not a part of Westeros.”  
“Though the Master of Whispers raises a fair point, his concerns are not with the nation’s assets. That is the duty of Lord Bronn,” Davos motioned towards the man who was tapping the table with a quill, “If we were to support your claim and assist, is Highgarden fruitful enough to spare resources for the people of The Black Rock?”  
Bronn did not answer immediately, still too focussed on the feather when Brienne nudged his leg with annoyance. He sat up, his blue eyes widening as he simpered.  
“Ah yes. We should be fine,” he replied quickly, shooting a cautious smile at Maenyra.  
A weight lifted from the girl, a breath escaping her in relief and her bones began to solidify- turning back into ivory and steel. She did not realise her heart had stopped beating as she ran her hand across her neck, reorienting herself in reality.  
“Is this what we are now? Some kind of charity! If we give this foreigner our resources, people are going to come from far and wide begging for the same," Gillish hissed loudly, unimpressed, "how long have you lived on that island for?”.  
“A few months but I can assure it is no place to live. It has a vengeance for humanity.”  
“How dramatic of you. Is that to keep us away so that we do not see your army? A multitude of ships lined up in a bay, with at least two hundred men on each, all waiting to be sailed here?”  
A tiny spark ignited in Maenyra’s belly, a cutting flame that crawled into her throat and controlled her tongue.  
“If I wanted to take King’s Landing, I would have done it by now.”  
She bit back and Valter’s eyebrows raised. The first instance of dragon fire to come from her but it would not help her case nor did she have the capacity to actually pull it off. The members continued bickering, the council divided in half as Maenyra was forced to watch. She would tense when Lord Baron raised a valid point, breathed when Tyrion swatted it down only for the cycle to begin again. It was a wheel, causing her to live and die with every second that went by.  
“What about Dragonstone?” Bran spoke out.  
The members slowly quietened down, turning to their King who remained stoic. Minds raced and she felt as the world had vanished entirely. Dragonstone. The heart of the Targaryens. She saw the little model on the moving map, but her mother had spoken about it in tales before too. An impending Valyrian fortress built from volcanic stone and ash, the throne of dragons and opposer of the ocean. It was Daenerys’ by right.  
“It is currently unoccupied.”  
She is dead.  
“And large enough for housing what remains of a village.”  
It could be Maenyra’s now.  
“At least only temporarily whilst they find their strength again.”  
Bran reached for her, lightly touching her cotton sleeve. She was so warm; he could feel it emanating from her blood. The Three-Eyed Raven tugged the hand back, tucking it under the other so it could not escape again.  
“Would this suit you better than remaining on your island?”  
Maenyra met his brown eyes. They were dark like a forest at midnight, through the canopy she could see the stars like the beads on her mother’s robe. It was a gaze not often shared between two leaders, one of understanding and gratefulness. There was admiration too, a promise that would hopefully ring effectively into the months to come. The past met the future to create the present in Maenyra and Bran- something he knew and something she was yet to realise.  
“It would,” she answered in a whisper, so quiet that the rest of the council missed it.  
“Then it is decided. Queen Maenyra will send for the rest of her people where they will take refuge in Dragonstone until further notice.”  
“My King,” Lord Baron interjected, licking his cracked lips quickly.  
“I have made my decision. That will be all on the matter.”  
Bran’s voice fell short of intimidating, but it had a different effect on men, rather an ability that was yet to be utilised by any other King before; perhaps Rhaegar if had the chance to ascend to the throne. His voice was as soft as snowflakes elegantly falling over the fields and trees but, this also meant that winter was coming. Bran’s voice gave a sense of judgement as if anything that was said against it was wrong. It hinted at colder tones and otherworldly thoughts. Such was the mind of the Three-Eyed Raven. Tyrion could not help but smile at Valter, looking over Bran’s head to witness the old sailor wiping away a tear. For once, the Small Council could make someone happy, do something good that will last. The Hand trusted his King’s decision, trusting in those peculiar visions that he could have, but he believed in Bran almost as much as he had loved Danaerys. 

Maenyra’s heart was thumping like the drums of war when she stepped back into her chambers that night, Samwell having invited her after the meeting for a quick interview. He was curious and she could not blame him. Although, her thoughts remained on Bran’s mercy to her people. She had had worried that Lord Baron and Ser Gillish’s cruel words would sway the young King to their side- they were his advisors after all- and yet he had given her a part of Targaryen history instead. Even if it was temporary, the relief she felt as a Queen was immense. She had managed to provide for her people and at no cost. There were no bonds for marriage or alliances. Valter told her that a King’s true kindness is rare and will come at a price in the future possibly, but she could care less. That was for future Maenyra to worry about. Instead, she wrote down everything in a list that would need to be accounted for to bring her people to Dragonstone: food, ships, some guards and other less obvious things. As she gazed up at the stars, head in her hands and happiness blossoming, she pictured Bran’s eyes in the clouds. They gave her faith, not wanting to squander this opportunity. Silently, she prayed for his well-being and that giant woman with a face of marble. Maenyra did not know to whom her thoughts would be heard by, but she gathered that the wind and moon were enough.  
The King himself was extremely proud of today. Even with having the defining judgement in every matter, Bran barely used it or more so forgot about it. Sometimes he felt as though he was still beyond The Wall, motionless and wrapped in furs. Meera would enter his mind for a second before her face disappeared into the blizzard. His point of being King was to direct his council, the pieces that would work together in tandem to fight in a time yet to come, and make sure they were in their places. He’s used to sitting by the fire and not being displayed for the public to admire. It was strange but today he did what every King did- command. His visions, glimpses of her silver hair, purple eyes or hands reaching out to him from the deep, told him that she was far too important for three motley men to shoo her away like a rodent. Bran recalled her heat, the hearth he sat before in his own chambers nowhere near it. It was the fire of a dragon evidentially but one that was yet to begin to die- young and untouched. It incinerated those thoughts of the frozen lands to the North, melted the ice that he felt cover his skin. The Three-Eyed Raven remained looking at the fire before tilting his head back and his eyes glossing with white. He needed to stay on the task at hand, ensure that those letters that Tyrion had written to the nobles of the other kingdoms about Maenyra’s residency was received. Before a raven carrying a note departed the Red Keep, it flew by the girl’s window, seeing that she had fallen asleep on the bed and spread out amongst the sheets. This peace will only last for so long.

It was true, Daenerys had broken the wheel with her death, but Bran had begun to weave an elaborate tapestry to replace it. The threads of each House of Westeros, every person, bound tightly together to build something greater. A future that the Mother of Dragons had wanted but could never be a part of. House Vhaenerys would need to find its place amongst these threads and the stitching was already woven tight.


	5. Sea Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Baron discusses plans with Ser Amish and Gillish. Maenyra searches the coast for shells as a gift for the King.

Lord Baron marched through the stables, his heavy steps causing his gut to bounce under his armour. It was the march of a giant, making stable-hands and servants to scamper away from his path. The mud squelched beneath his boots as he made eye-contact with his horse, Greymane, which looked less than pleased to have to carry the beast of a man once more.  
“Must you leave us now?” Ser Gillish stressed, “what must we say to convince you to stay?”  
“My wife is to give birth to my third child soon and I intend to be there when she does. When you have a family of your own, Gillish, you will come to understand. No force, not even a foreigner, will withhold me from my children,” the older lord answered sternly, forcing the young men to remain in place.  
The sky was clouded today, grey covering the sun and light showers sprinkling down onto King’s Landing. It was strange weather for the South, but the children played in puddles and the farmers were grateful for the rains. Placing the saddle onto his horse, Baron sighed and turned to his friends. Their eyes were lit with an anxiety, a worry for the future that men as young as them should not have to endure as of yet. It had been three days since the council meeting, three long and trying days that forced them to interact in a civilised manner towards the Beggar Queen. It was difficult to watch a child command forces legions above her. She reassured them that she came with no army, even making an attempt to calm the fears that Lord Baron has. She had no dragons, not even an egg. I only have the ones in my mind, Maenyra had tried to jest, but they can’t harm anyone. He admired her courage to approach them after what they had said to her in the hall a few days prior. However, her attempt fell on deaf ears, Gillish being more concerned with having to share the country with a foreigner. There was a reason Valyria was destroyed, the massacre of an entire civilisation too great and powerful to remain in the realms of men. Amish remained loyal to the people, having seen the effects of dragon fire during the attack on King’s Landing. Ser Baron’s apprehensions did not linger with his friends’. His mind turned to his ever-growing family, the legacy that he was to leave behind. Maenyra may have no dragon but that means nothing to him. It appears, to him at least, that everyone had glossed over one looming fact about Targaryen blood- which now also concerned that of House Vhaenerys.  
During his youth, Lord Baron read many books on dragons; their anatomy, abilities, personalities, lairs and attitudes. There was never any doubt that the bond between rider and dragon was permanent once formed, but it was also known that dragons could gain a new rider once their previous one had died. This was the case with most Targaryen ancestry, Balerion being claimed by Aegon’s son, Prince Maegor, after his death and so forth with others. Viserion had perished by the undead forces in the North and Rhaegal’s skeleton remained beneath the waves off the coast of Dragonstone but one had survived their arrival to Westeros. His location was still unknown and rumours of Daenerys being alive and living in the Dothraki Sea, awaiting the day that her last son is the size of a mountain to return to their country and submerge in liquid flame, had circled around the kingdoms for months. Drogon was an issue, a threat to the land even now, and a new rider, spawned of the same magic of the Mad Queen, was to have the Targaryen stronghold. The future is a damn tricky thing.  
Greymane whinnied, his tail swishing as Baron’s aged fingers felt his soft coat, humming in approval.  
“I shall send a raven when I have returned to River Spires. In the meantime, Amish, I want you on that boat she takes to Dragonstone, no matter what,” Baron turned to Gillish who remained with his arms crossed, “you are to do all you can to find Drogon. Track it, hunt it and kill it.”  
“Tracking a dragon is not the same as hunting a stag or wild boar. How can I track something in the sky?”  
“I do not know, and I do not care how you do it, but we mustn’t let fate bring these two together. Drogon lives for a purpose and I am not prepared to find out what it is.”  
“Killing the girl would be easier than killing the dragon.”  
Amish shoved his palm over Gillish’s mouth with a puff, eyes narrowing. Baron bought the knights further into the stable, eyeing the way the stable-hands lingered, took longer to brush manes or feed horses oats. A gentle trickle began to pour down from the heavens.  
“Killing the dragon would not be an act of treason. If you have not noticed, the King seems quite fond of the girl.”  
“The King is senseless,” Gillish reminded with a whisper, his tone harsh but true.  
“He was senseless.”  
The three exchanged glances, the sound of bells clanging in their heads. Greymane snorted at his owner, bowing his head so he could scratch behind the ears. Amish patted the horse, a frown plastered over his brow. Marriage was the most basic of political moves, binding bloodlines together and producing heirs to carry a legacy. An act he was more than happy to stray from.  
“There is a Lord I know who is seeking a husband for his daughter. I will send a letter at once,” Amish murmured.  
“Where does he herald from?”  
“He is of Mistwood, took the castle and title not too long ago from the Mertyns when all the Baratheons were thought to be dead.”  
“Ah, the Rainwood. It has produced some lovely women. Well, I do hope you have made a good match for our King,” Baron smiled while slapping his hand against Amish’s back with a comforting pat, “replies from our neighbouring kingdoms will be coming soon enough. Tyrion made it quite clear in his letters that the King was adamant about helping the girl despite not seeking the opinions of our fellow nobles. I expect some recoil will occur.”  
“It was said that only Highgarden and King’s Landing was to spare resources.”  
“Yes, but we do not have nearly enough ships to transport rations to Dragonstone and sail to The Black Rock to gather the rest of her horde. You know who does?”  
“The ironborn,” Amish answered.  
“Precisely and Yara is still quite sensitive about her late Queen. Maenyra may have won over our King and the council but she is yet to win over the land. There is still a chance for fate to fail if we can help it.”  
Baron mounted Greymane, the horse buckling for a moment, before he wished his friends good luck and began his journey back to River Spires.

Raindrops trickled down the bridge of Maenyra’s nose as she walked along the shore, the sea gentle despite the rain. The horizon was an ugly grey with clouds rolling in from the East, but her eyes did not linger there. Instead, they searched the ground for something special to her. Shells. Rita and Ora remained beside her, wrapped up in shawls as they were disappointed with the chill that had come over the land. How cruel the world could be to make their summer dresses now redundant. A first since the council meeting, Valter had not joined them on their outing, opting to discuss with Davos the condition of House Vhaenerys’ single ship that was still docked- the thing looking as if it were about to fall apart. Instead, Podrick was tasked with protecting the ladies by Brienne’s command. He was smiling for too wide at Ora to hide it, but it was a charming look none the less. She blushed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her in embarrassment. She kept his handkerchief tucked in the small gap between her bosom and corset. There were no intentions to give it back and none to ask for it. Podrick watched as her blush tumbled from her cheeks down her throat, his heart skipping with glee.  
“You look lovely today, m’lady,” he admired, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other gesturing to her.  
“Please, there is no need to flatter me, Ser Podrick.”  
“But I can tell you like it so why should I stop?”  
Ora attempted to cover her face, her cheeks burning with a warmth that excited the woman inside of her. She had barely come into womanhood, around the same time that Maenyra had, and her maturity towards older men was yet to develop. However, Podrick looked like a bear, she had reasoned, a cuddly bear that was huggable and kissable. Rita watched the two of them secretly, only ever taking quick glances as their Queen continued to scour the coast. Shells were not common in the area, this she had been warned of, but that did not stop Maenyra from trying. Bran was yet to leave her mind and she knew he wouldn’t until she thanked him properly for his kindness. She had very little and what she did have would mean nothing to a King in command of several kingdoms. But there was a custom practiced in Reefward where, in order to show one’s appreciation for another, they would find a shell or piece of coral that they thought beautiful and present it to the other as a gift. This was the only choice Maenyra had but as her journey down the beach continued, the few shells she found being damaged or cracked, she could only accept defeat. With a heavy sigh, she sat herself down on the sand and bit at her nails. Rita stopped the love birds in their tracks and gave Maenyra the space she needed.  
“What is she doing?” Podrick asked innocently, leaning into the women.  
“Thinking. She does this when she’s frustrated. She probably won’t move for the next few hours,” Rita replied curtly.  
“And when the tide comes in?”  
“She will be swept away with it,” Ora chuckled into her hand, squeezing her boobs together as Podrick turned to her.  
Maenyra wondered how far away Dragonstone was from here, how long it would take for them to get there and how long would it take to fly. She hoped there were shells or sea glass there, she did not mind either. It was better than the rocky cliffs along the beaches of the Red Keep. She took no notice of the two girls and knight walking back through the sand, not straying too far but far enough for Maenyra to feel alone. The sea breeze blew through her hair, she could feel it coaxing her into the water. It was too cold today for a swim and as she began to plait her soaked hair, the gentle trickle of rain ceasing, she watched three boats rock back and forth in Blackwater Bay. What do I think of Bran, she asked herself, a rather sudden question that just appeared in her thoughts, what is he to me? She cut herself on the question, the quick protrusion into her calm contemplation causing her lungs to expand. He’s a boy, no, he’s a man, she corrected herself, and a King. A merciful King, she continued, which is good for further requests. That was the problem, the term 'further requests' should not be attached to him. Already, Maenyra had accepted Bran into her future, seeing him there regardless of what is to happen. This frustrated her and her mind. She had to stay focussed but her heart would cease when he looked at her. Maenyra battled, telling herself she could not so quickly fall for a man that displays the smallest amount of attention to her. What he was doing, he was doing out of the good of his heart yet through that unmoving face of his, that was what she came to appreciate. Bran’s heart. It was rare to have one, let alone be willing to use it. Her brothers would be mocking her, her mother would be dressing her in all types of jewellery and her father would be proud if they were here. I mustn’t confuse charity with affection, she argued quietly, he would have done it for anyone else in my position. But there was no one else in her position so how could she be so sure. This battered around in her thoughts before she threw them away into the ocean for the time being, skimming them across the surface like smooth pebbles. The water ran along up the beach to tickle the tips of her leather boots, saying hello with tiny white bubbles. She will come back tomorrow to search for more shells; maybe some will wash up with the storm that was charging in over the bay, thunder cracking the sky overhead.  
When it began to pour, the Gods weeping down onto the world, did Rita and Ora fetch their queen from the sand, Podrick using his cape to protect the three women from the rain. They bathed Maenyra in steamy water that fogged the room, hoping that illness would not take their dragon. They spoke to her in short sentences, seeing she was distracted but took little offense to it. They soaked her in lavender oils and salts, washing her long hair with such care as to ensure it would glow when it was dry. Maenyra lulled in the hot water, the steam invigorating her. It was when she was being dried and hair brushed did a servant knock on her chamber door. The young lad flushed red seeing a woman for the first time in a sheer robe, the outline of her body highlighted by candlelight. He stuttered his words, hands becoming clammy as he informed them that the King wished for the Lady of Dragonstone to join him for dinner. Maenyra had chuckled at the title before being swamped with giggles, gasps and joyous screams. Ora shook her shoulders, drawing the woman from her thoughts entirely as Rita’s smile filled the entire mirror of the vanity. 

Bran could still hear the annoying screeching of Joffrey echoing through the room which caused the candles to dim. He regretted walking the halls in the past whilst the mad boy pranced around the Iron Throne, rubbing his fingers together and back-chatting his mother. It was quite entertaining to watch until Bran reminded himself that the court actually had to endure the child, including Margaery in all her skilful manipulation. The King listened to the pitter patter outside, sadly the elaborate curtains having been drawn to ensure the rain does not find its way inside. There was a nervousness, he would admit that much, that swirled in his chest like the storm outside. Two guards opened the door with a clatter and Maenyra stepped in almost unrecognisable. If Bran was not the Three-Eyed Raven he would have asked where his guest was and who was this imposter, but his mouth remained shut, also unsure how such a statement would pass. There was a silence that choked the air between them as his eyes raked over her body. She looked like a Queen in this moment, hair braided with what appeared to be small pearls beaded at the ends. Maenyra wore the white dress with the gold dragons, the material light and delicate. Those very dragons began to dance with each other for him and celebrating their owner. Her fingers weaved together tightly, causing her knuckles to go white as she curtsied.  
“Your Grace,” she spoke gently.  
“Please, sit,” he gestured the chair at the other end of the long, wooden table, “I do hope you are not cold.”  
As she got comfortable, trying to maintain her breathing and rampant thoughts, his words caused her to smile. The young man in the King was yet to remove his eyes from the pale skin of her arms, tracing the blue veins that lie to close to the skin.  
“Supposedly, I have fire in my veins, my Lord. It would take more than a storm to make me cold,” she chuckled.  
Servants began to walk into the room with trays of food and a jug. They swarmed the table, pouring wine into their glasses and offering food. The two they served only continued to gaze at each other, Maenyra still trying to understand why she was summoned, telling herself and over and over that it was only a meeting between two powers under a more intimate setting. However, she did notice how the King was formally dressed, she figured, opposed to his other outfits. He wore black entirely, long sleeves made of velvet with silver trim to accent the shape of his thin body. Around his shoulders was white stitching, patterned into the shape of branches with red leaves twinkling with crimson beads. He looked handsome, different to when she first met him, and she could feel her cheeks heating. When the servants had moved away, she reached for her glass thinking it would calm her senses to at least be holding something. This was the first time she has ever had dinner alone with a man, let alone a King.  
“You are asking yourself why you are here,” Bran started abruptly.  
She took a sip of the wine, eyes widening slightly.  
“I did not wish to dine alone tonight. I wanted company.”  
Slowly, Maenyra nodded and understood his words at heart. A shiver did run up her spine, one that caused the hairs on her neck to stand but it was not from the cold as she had said. Bran’s gaze was still yet to move, his brown eyes peering into her own. She thought the food on the platters were more beautiful to look at.  
“I hope I am good enough for the honour. What is it you wish to discuss, my Lord?”  
“You may call me Bran. My Lord is not my name.”  
“Then you may call me Maenyra, or Mae if we are to throw formalities out the window once more,” she chuckled awkwardly, realising that it was those proper rules that allowed her mind to keep a straight track.  
“Mae,” he repeated gently, the dragons turning to his attention, “tell me about your home in Reefward.”  
She breathed in, her finger playing with a loose string on one of the stitches in her dress. She smiled to herself, childhood skipping through her veins and the sweet scent of desserts filling her nose.  
“It’s like a dream now to look back on it. It was all too good to be true. My father was kind, my mother tender and my brothers lived only it seemed to entertain me. Reefward is like those villages you hear in fairy tales and ballads sung by bards; perfect and untouchable. The ringing of bells as ships came into port, the smell of the ocean, the soft sand and sun setting on a clear horizon. My brothers and I swam nearly every day if it could be helped. We could hold our breath for so long that mother used to tell us we would turn into fish,” Maenyra reminisced, voice trailing along the edge of memories.  
Bran smiled, “my brothers used to take it upon themselves to teach me archery, but their focus should’ve been on Arya- she was always better than me at that. I remember climbing the walls of Winterfell, my home. I was quite good at it and mother used to scorn me for it. I could see just about everything from those tall towers, things that a child should never have seen.”  
His voice lingered as one of his hands fell to his thigh, gripping it tightly with a sudden aggression.  
“But I learned to fly instead, and I am here because of it.”  
Maenyra breathed in, feeling her throat constrict as he spoke of his condition. He had fallen and at such a young age. Horrible, she thought. The two began to eat, the clatter of silverware on plates, and quiet laughs shared. As dinner continued, the Three-Eyed Raven was silenced, his cawing disappearing as Bran felt himself be somewhat human for the first time. This is what it was like to be a man, he presumed, to feel another. He enjoyed it, the way he felt normal, the want to feel normal. It was in that second, without him noticing, that Maenyra had indeed sparked a small flame in the roots of his Weirwood Tree- his soul. One that will cause him to desire, to want once more as he had as a boy.  
She swallowed the piece of beef before leaning forward with a grin, the wine heating her cheeks, fingers and loins.  
“Forgive me if what I am about to ask you offends you-.”  
“Curiosity can be a leader’s greatest asset or his downfall but go on.”  
“What are you? I’ve heard people call you the Three-Eyed Raven.”  
“I have an ability to remember our past, influence our present and glimpse into the future.”  
She nodded slowly, tongue wetting her lips, “so like a prophet? I have met many, there are plenty to spare in Essos.”  
“I hope my words hold a little more importance than theirs.”  
“I should hope so too! They made you King because of it.”  
They smiled at each other, this time Bran swallowing some wine, something he barely touches. If Tyrion was to see him now, his jaw would hit the floor.  
“My grandmother was able to tell who would die next based on the weather in her dreams,” Maenyra chuckled with a smirk, “the amount of times my uncle had tried to silence that woman.”  
“Valyrians were said to be able to have prophetic dreams. That was how the Targaryens were able to survive the fall of their home land. Maybe it runs in your family.”  
She paused for a moment, a hesitation that lasted a second. Once again, she saw the dragon at the bottom of the ocean, crying for its mother alone and cold. She shuddered.  
“Maybe it does…”  
She sighed before Bran raised his hand, beckoning her to him.  
“Come, Mae.”  
The woman rose from her chair rapidly, as if something was dragging her up and moved to stand beside him. With restraint, he took her hand, drawing her closer still. The contact caused her blood to boil almost instantly, her eyes locking onto their hands with a child’s shock.  
“You have told us many times over these days passed that you do not have your own dragon, but I, as the King, shall give you one.”  
From a hidden pocket, somewhere under the layers of black he wore, Bran produced a polished gold chain with a black dragon dangling from it- a ruby for its eye. He was told women liked jewellery. Maenyra stepped back somewhat intimidated and the gold dragons on her dress seemed to slow in their steps. The King smiled at her anyhow, watching a gasp flee from her lips as he placed it in her hands and closed her fingers around it. The metal was cool.  
“A sign of goodwill and a welcome to Westeros,” he murmured to her as if that was the purpose it was meant to serve.  
She wiped a tear away before it was able to spill down her cheek as she admired her little dragon. Quickly, she placed it around her slender neck.  
“If only I could repay you, Bran, for all that you’ve done.”  
“You will, one day.”  
But those words were not heard by Maenyra nor her dragons.


	6. Letters, Dreams and Shells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Islands receives a letter from King's Landing whilst Bran discusses a dream he had.

Boots padded heavily across the stone floors of the castle, no doubt leaving scuff marks. The man, whose feet were currently in said boots, raced through the corridors of Pyke, pushing fellow soldiers out the way with a gruff voice. Many collided with the walls and others dared to challenge his direction by standing stock still and shoving him out of the way instead. Annoyance surged through the atmosphere. He was late. That’s all he knew even though ironborn aren’t known for their punctuality. King Euron- his body now lingering somewhere along the coastal sands of King’s Landing- cared little for matters of time as long as he came face to face with his enemy. He was useless on land, but the ocean had been his battleground, as it was for most Greyjoys, but now the ruthless men of the Iron Islands are governed with a female hand. They all had their reservations but when they witnessed Yara Greyjoy beat the life and sea out of the one person who dared to challenge her rule, calling her a usurper of her uncle’s right, the court fell silent. The salt of the sea still lingered in the dead sailor’s blood as it ran into the cracks in the ground. In those red tracks was the reflection of Yara declaring that Daenerys Targaryen, to whom most of them were unaware of, has returned to Westeros to reclaim the throne and how they were now in allegiance with the dragon. That allegiance then shifted to a raven almost, what felt like, overnight.  
Yara respected punctuality and demanded that her court of rough pirates would at least grace her with that amount of respect. No man under her gaze was late… Until today. Merva was Yara’s closest advisor, the thirty-year-old man filling the position that would have been for Theon. In his clutches was a note, one that had arrived in the claws of a raven, explaining the immediate attention of his Queen. Throwing fear to the side, he sprinted across a rotting wooden bridge, connecting one section of the castle to another. The wood groaned beneath his feet, the ropes worn and tattered from being constantly beaten with strong sea winds and storms. Beneath him, the waves lashed against the cliff face, constantly crawling up the rock before sinking once more into the depths. The smell of seaweed and fresh rain replaced the air. People clung onto the rope for their lives as the bridge swung back and forth, Merva once again coming under direct fire of insults. No apologies left his tight lips. At least he knew where his Queen would be, marching about the docks with that stern look that should only be seen on the faces of disappointed fathers and grandfathers. She was to set sail soon enough for Ten Towers to discuss matters of shared resources. The Iron Islands was not a home for humble farmers.  
Merva anticipated his legs would give way, they were scrawny enough to break like a twig, but the thought of her eyes lingering on his form, agitated and unimpressed, would hurt him more than any cut or bruise. Death would even be better than to face Yara’s frustration in the flesh. As he ran down the dirt tracks, acting like veins through the thin grass, and leaping over rocks, the docks at last came into view. A small ship waited for its sailors and Queen in the water, gently swaying back and forth. Some had said the ship appeared too tiny for their royalty, like one a child would play with, but those whom questioned were promptly proven wrong when they saw how fast it could move in water. Everything, from the thin shape of the bow to the design of the sails allowed the small beast to cut through waves like they were made of paper.  
‘Sea Dragon,’ Yara mumbled when she ran her hands along the crafted wood of the helm for the first time, ‘that’s what we will call her. That’s what all of Westeros will come to know.’  
It was threatening in its own way, not relying on tradition to empower it. The Sea Dragon was to be just as mighty as the Silence, if not greater. As per the norm, Yara had men chatting off her ear, each voice grating even if they were speaking of useful things. Democracy and patience were lost upon them, things she had learned during her time in Meereen and exiled from her home. Regardless, the black, almost green tinted, finish on her boat brought a smile to her face, a single foot setting onto the board before she heard Merva’s voice calling to her. He ran along the board walk before stopping in front of Yara and the other court members. His face was red, wheezing and puffing, he swallowed harshly.  
“You’re late,” the woman mumbled, looking down at his crippling form.  
“Letter from King’s Landing for the Kraken Queen,” he mumbled, raising the crumpled piece of paper.  
A few looks were shared, as her gloved fingers grasped the edges. She was about to hesitate, asking if the news was good or bad in fear of her sailing trip being ruined. Yara was more than relieved to be leaving Pyke for a number of days, enjoying the open water and endless sky, and she did not wish for that to be interrupted with unwanted political jargon. However, that hesitation dissipated as she read the contents of the note, her eyes turning into thin lines. 

Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands and Lady Reaper of Pyke,  
It is my duty to inform you, and our noble friends, that the Small Council has found its final members after a year of remaining incomplete. Ser Amish Varly has found his position as Master of War, Ser Gillish Flowers is the Master of Laws and, with great respect Lord Baron of House Strad is the new Master of Whisperers. We thank you for sending your considerations and effort to help us complete the Small Council.  
However, a surprising occurrence has happened. A woman by the name of Maenyra Bloodborn, no older than our King, has arrived from across the Narrow Sea with a small company. She claims to be a member of another, unknown, descendant house of Valyria- Vhaenerys- and bares the lofty title of Queen. She requested aid for her people who are currently suffering and stranded on an island that does not appear on our maps. We, the Small Council, after a lengthy discussion and worthy pledge on the Queen’s behalf, have decided that we shall indeed support her cause. Our King has offered Dragonstone as a safe haven until they find a land of their own to settle in.  
Until then, our King asks that you offer your own loyal support to this merciful endeavour. From you, we ask that you grant us the use of your ships, as we in King’s Landing are yet to have a notably useful navy. There is no other person we would rather turn to when considering this task.  
Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King

Gulls squawked overhead as Yara’s sailing trip was indeed ruined. She had little agency to the throne, only agreeing that Bran should be King in hopes the boy will leave the Iron Islands to their own bidding. It had been that way for the past year, ships sailing around Westeros and the ironborn remaining to themselves. Now, after all this time, the King calls for Yara’s help without so much of a choice. Whoever this 'Queen' was, and if this was all the information given, has left her tale vague. It was like Tyrion to want to help, but not like him to do so quickly.  
“The King calls for our ships,” Yara announced, stuffing the letter into a gap between her tunic and abraded armour, “and our pity.”  
The wind whipped through their hair, blowing strands across faces and necks. The Sea Dragon creaked in response, moving closer to its owners. She looked one more time at Pyke, before turning around and boarding her boat. They all waited, noticing the way she placed a hand on the hilt of her sword that resided on a leather belt wrapping around her broader waist. She had seen a Targaryen; she knows what they can be like. Tyrion knows too, better than anyone now. Maenyra had not laid down her pledge to the Kraken Queen, not yet at least.  
“There is a Valyrian in King’s Landing. She came from across the sea, most likely Essos,” Yara announced turning to the older men, “she is in need of aid and we are permitted to give it.”  
“Is it another half breed?” Feuron questioned quickly.  
At this, she scoffed, “she’s not some kind of dog, regardless of what she claims to be and before any of you start asking any questions; the answer is no, I did not know.”  
“Are you going to give her our ships?”  
Yara watched the sails move with the breeze, her house sigil, the gold squid reminding her of what happened last time. They were at war then, however, with Westeros itself and her uncle- the mad man. That stern look returned as she gazed at all of the ships scattered across the horizon. There were so many, like ants, silhouetted shadows against the sun and sea.  
“The King and his council may have made their decision, but I am yet to even meet this woman. Merva, I want you to send two letters, one to Ten Towers and the other to King’s Landing. Inform Ten Towers that I will not be able to make the meeting as we agreed; another matter concerning Westeros must be attended to first. The other, enlighten the Hand that I will be arriving in King’s Landing within the week to meet this ‘Queen.’ I shall make choice from there.”  
Her eyes were piercing as Merva was frozen on the spot.  
“Go now. I will wait for you,” she grinned, and he scampered off like a rat, racing back up the rocks and dunes.  
She wondered if the girl looked like Daenerys or Jon Snow. 

Tyrion watched as Maenyra left through the front gate of the Red Keep, her glowing hair making her stand out amongst the common shades of brown. Beside her, he knew those two women were Rita and Ora. Already their voices can be heard through the halls at the most ungodly hours, laughing or squealing. Valter was to accompany them, he doesn’t blame him. After the incident regarding a few indecent words towards the young Queen, the old sailor was not amused with the conduct of the council men. Somehow, the feud had not escalated but the brewing silence did not comfort Tyrion. Things are not solved when one issue puts up with another. Fire will come and with it destruction and death. It is only a matter of time and he had the job of ensuring that fire was extinguished before it gets out of hand. How he always gets these important, realm changing positions he will never know.  
“I was wondering how long peace would last here. Sadly, I don’t think Westeros is done with its swords just yet,” Tyrion sighed, turning away from the window and walking back to his desk which was littered with papers demanding his signature and response.  
Bran nodded, “Westeros will never be done with swords. It depends on what men are fighting for, that is what must concern us.”  
The Hand smiled at that, tapping the desk with his fingers and leaning forward with bright eyes.  
“You really do speak as if you are the oldest man alive. What do the girls think?” he teased.  
“You told Ser Amish that they prefer men with experience.”  
A chuckle filled the air, tired but deserved by Bran’s quip. The King had opened up only slightly since Maenyra’s arrival, Tyrion noted this, a week in her presence has made a difference. Thoughts of finding a Queen for Bran had been an idea and task since day one but was put to the back of the council’s mind. From first glances, he did not appear a great husband or even have the potential to court a woman. Another issue was the lack to father children. What woman did not wish to have children? What woman would give that up? This is what turned Tyrion away from opening the gates for possible Queens, even if they played a large political part. Now, he was happy Bran had someone to talk to ‘normally’ instead of being incredibly cryptic the entire time, but of course the Three-Eyed Raven had to make things difficult by choosing a girl who rings with echoes of a tyrant. The necklace was a success and so was their dinner, according to Bran that is. Tyrion’s advice had played well, his King thanking him when he was wheeled into the Tower of the Hand. Originally, he had used the excuse that it was a welcome to Westeros for her, something to show that the Six Kingdoms were civil but Tyrion could tell by the way a light dust of rosy pink fell upon the boy’s cheeks that it certainly had other meanings too. He was yet to ask directly, not wanting Bran to fall back into his silent state, if he actually indeed fancied her. Love grew rapidly in the kingdom. If you were betrothed you were in love, if you were rivals you were in love, if you’re family you are in love and if you know nothing about each other, that fascination drew you together. Tyrion had long come to the conclusion that she also had role to play in the future of the land but that was for later. Now, with the storm of the previous day clearing completely and the yellow sunlight returning, the tower only had room for happiness.  
“I dreamt of her,” Bran opened, “last night.”  
“With all due respect, my King, I do not need to know about those matters.”  
He shook his head to the young man, returning to the papers with an attempt to give them some order.  
“You told me to tell you these things if I think they’re important.”  
“You can give children to your wife?”  
There was a pause, a silence as Tyrion grew hopeful. There was always a chance that the Maesters could be wrong, no matter how rare the occurrence was. He placed a letter atop a pile of books, awaiting an answer with bated breath.  
“No.”  
Hope shattered as if it was trampled under Dothraki horses. Tyrion only nodded once more, shielding his distress from Bran’s gaze as the boy adjusted himself in his wheelchair.  
“I saw her in my dream. It was for a moment, but I don’t see people unless I mean to. She walked with agency as if she was lost.”  
“Where were you this time?”  
“Blackwater Bay. It was frozen over. I could not see the land, but I knew it was the bay. Ships were lodged in place and there was a blizzard. Then I saw her. In the distance was the shadow of the Red Keep and we were both walking towards it, but she disappeared completely in the snowstorm,” Bran recalled, reliving it with every word.  
He had called out to her, several times in fact as the guards had rushed in thinking someone had come to assassinate their King. That frost he thought covered his skin had turned to thick ice, freezing him from the outside in. It was the first time in years since he had wanted his mother, an immature thought, but he wished it none the less. She had the warmest hugs, almost as warm as Mae was in his eyes but even the fires of a dragon burn hotter than that of mother’s love in this world.  
“Do you have any thought of what it means?” Tyrion asked simply, pulling open a draw and producing two small pouches from within, each with a gold lion clasp and string bunching the opening together.  
“The days of summer are numbered.”  
“The realm will definitely be pleased to know that,” the Hand answered sarcastically with a heavy exhale, “that’s exactly what we need to hear after everything. As for the girl?”  
Bran shook his head in defeat, not understanding her presence in the slightest. Perhaps it had something to do with seeing her for dinner, or spending time with her at all. The Three-Eyed Raven was curious, and Bran saw it as an opportunity for something else. Tyrion unravelled a message that had returned from Storm’s End, Gendry’s messy handwriting evident. He had told the bastard he would need to learn to write if he was to be a Lord and it was getting better. It no longer looked as if a toddler had written it.  
“I wish to organise a hunt,” Bran said plainly.  
Tyrion’s eyes shot open, his jaw dropping immediately. 

Maenyra shielded her eyes against the sun as she was pulled through the streets lined with people that gave her curious and glaring gazes. Rita and Ora had warned her before they left for the day that she may be quite the spectacle and target but Valter was willing to take that hit for her. The two handmaids had managed to lure her out of her room and into the culture of the capital where she had previously stated she had no interest in venturing. Their argument was the possibility of shells, something Maenyra was certainly coveting now since Bran had given her a dragon. The pendant had remained around her neck since she had received it, something she also swore she would never take off. Rita named it ‘Little Shadow’ whilst finger prints quickly covered the metal. Maenyra had polished it immediately before departing on their outing. Now, as the sun disappeared behind a fluffy, white cloud, she found herself in front of a stall, Rita and Ora glancing down at the various beaded jewellery the seller had to offer. When she was fiddling with the pendant, loving the feeling of the engraved scales across her fingertips, the seller motioned to it, referring how that can only be the work of the best jeweller in King’s Landing. She smiled, commenting on how great the craftsmanship was before complimenting his own creations.  
‘Gives my wife something to do and it gets me away from her,’ the man had laughed loudly.  
Ora struggled to persuade Maenyra to purchase anything, often saying how some of the beads would look wonderful in her hair before whispering how she needed to look good for the King. The woman brushed her off, simply repeating what Bran had said to her at dinner. One strand decorated with what appeared to look like white pearls reminded her of the ones she wore in her hair that night. Her mother had promised her only daughter the pearls she used to weave through her own hair, passed down through generations, but they were probably sold now to some market in Essos. The ones she has now, in an attempt to keep that tradition alive, were merely made of the same materials as the one on the table before her now. She hoped Bran did not notice.  
“Mae, look,” Rita gasped, grasping something from her end.  
The handmaid raised a bracelet with several wooden beads linked together by string. Separating them were polished bits of sea glass and shell. It was a small thing, possibly large enough to fit the wrist of a child.  
“Where did you find the shells?” Maenyra asked breathless, fingers moving the beads along the string, admiring the fragments together.  
“Shells are rare here. We usually ride further down the coast to look for them, sometimes going as far as Sharp Point. We make a trip of it. Spend days along the sand getting sunburnt. Do it mostly with my son now. Wife stays home with the baby,” the seller answered nonchalantly, sniffing and rubbing his nose, “sometimes we get pearls too. Survived last winter because of the coin we got from rich ladies like you.”  
Maenyra considered roaming the coast once more, this time taking an army to help her, but the way the shards of shell looked as if they were painted by some mythical being and how the sea glass reflected the sun like the water, she knew this was perfect. Perhaps not as grand as the necklace around her own neck but it meant just as much to her.  
“How much for it?”  
“I’ll give it to you for one gold.”  
He had expected reluctance from Maenyra, but she agreed and asked for the gruff looking man next to her, who he had put down as her father somehow and had remained silent this entire time, to pay him. He seemed sincere when he produced a cold coin from a lacklustre leather pouch and placed it into the seller’s dirty palm.  
“Thank you,” she smiled.  
“Oh no! Thank you. I’m sure it’ll look lovely on you.”  
“It’s not for me,” Maenyra mused, “it’s for the King. What is your name by the way?”  
Dumbfounded, he answered, licking his chapped lips, “Egmund. Egmund Crod.”  
“I’ll be sure to let the King know that it was you who crafted this beautiful piece. Good day.”  
With that, the three girls and that man disappeared into the crowd of bustling people and as it seemed without a trace.  
“The King…” Egmund trailed before sitting down on the small stool beside him, “Fuck me.”  
There was only once that Maenyra had seen a city like this, so alive and jovial. It was when she travelled to Pentos with her father when she was seven. It took them a few days to travel there and she remembered complaining the whole way because of the heat, but when they arrived, she was lost in the greenery, music and buildings. It was as if they had gone only yesterday, the noble people dressing her in an orange dress with cream sleeves. It was her favourite item for years until she started morphing into a woman. It did not fit the same then. Maenyra had always promised herself that she would return there some day and get a new orange dress. Somehow, whilst in Pentos, the father and daughter never met the Targaryen orphans, or perhaps they did, and she was too young to remember. So, ten years older with the mind of an adult, she pretended she was walking through the streets of Pentos, in that orange dress of hers, bathing in the sun’s warm glow. In those moments, she was a lady, an actual lady that was returning to her castle where her betrothed was waiting. A childish fantasy but one that was her reality only a year ago. 

She glanced down at the bracelet, smiling to herself.


	7. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the night before The Hunt and some welcome new life into the world while others track death. An unexpected journey North leads Maenyra on a forgetful path.

There was no greater honour than being a father, no greater prize or title that could grant so much joy. A knight will grow old and eventually put down his sword, a king will pass on his legacy to his child or loose it to another and farmer or blacksmith will become too frail to continue his trade. Once you become a father, you remain one until your last breath is taken, until that final moment where death takes you. It was something Baron knew that could never be stripped from him, no matter what he did in his life, for in his arms bundled tightly in blankets was his baby daughter- the third sun in his life and fourth reason to believe in Westeros. She was born only a few hours ago, her young mother sore from labour and resting on sweaty sheets. Crowding around the baby was also Robert, the young Lord only ten years old, and Baron’s eldest son, Leon who had turned sixteen a few days prior to his sister’s birth. Three protectors gazing down at a single ray of sunshine turned to flesh.  
“Your mother has done well,” Baron smiled as his youngest son nudged into his father’s arm whilst pulling at his sleeve, “giving you a sister.”  
“What’s her name?” Robert mumbled.  
“I thought we could decide as a family. Your mother wanted to call her Ellara but she’s much too beautiful for a peasant name.”  
Leon leaned down over his father’s shoulder, brown hair trickling over his shoulders as he extended two fingers to run across his sister’s forehead. She was so soft and those green eyes that echoed of Spring and the sounds of flower meadows gazed up at him. He murmured a hello with a kind smile. Robert watched his little sister squirm about with the knowledge that he was now the middle child, that awkward place where you have neither unfair expectation nor quality support. He has seen it with his cousins- Jory being the one stuck in the middle and they forgot all about his nameday one year because his younger brother was born. Robert wanted to cry, grappling his father’s sleeve with such a force that it could rip.  
“Will you still love me?” he sniffed, looking up to Baron’s aging face.  
There was a chuckle from the two other men, Leon reaching over to ruffle his brother’s hair.  
“Of course, son, nothing will ever change that.”  
“But Jory said-.”  
“It matters not what your cousin says. Just because someone new comes into our family does not mean there is less love for you,” Baron hummed, reaching over his son with one arm to pull him closer, “think about it. Your sister will love you so you will be loved even more than you are now.”  
This seemed to stop the tears that were forming in Robert’s eyes, him quickly rubbing them away with a child’s smile. The fire in the hearth crackled, warming the family, the yellow light crawling over Leon, Baron and the baby. The spires welcomed the new child as the wooden corridors sung with whispers of the wind- a ghostly howl- that began when she started to cry. The servants spoke of the new child, the handmaids of Lady Straad describing how she is more wonderful than the moon and she is merely a baby. Oh yes, it had been an incredibly long time since the creaking walls of the River Spires bore witness to such an occasion. The trees surrounding their home outside swayed in approval of her, the leaves muttering of the past and the future; a blessing of sorts if anyone could hear it. Robert looked out the window for a moment, his eyes being brought to the moon as it glowed in the sky. It was midnight and notably the longest he had ever stayed up. The silver streams that struck through the glass and highlighted the dust in the air covered Robert and snuffing out the fire light that continued to trace the rest of his family. However, peering in along with the moon, a lone raven stood on the window sill, eyes watching the baby, its beak sometimes tapping against the glass by accident. It casted a shadow on the floor, one that scared Robert as it spread its wings to stretch.  
“What about Summer,” Leon suggested.  
Baron grinned, stroking the cheeks of his daughter with a fondness he had not shown anyone else. Summer would suit her perfectly. A perfect name for the future queen of Westeros, he thought to himself. There will come a time where he will see his children rule this land, much like Ned Stark’s offspring spreading everywhere like some kind of disease. Baron’s children were different though, they were the future in his eyes, the promising youth would forget about the struggles of yesterday and continue a peaceful reign in the years to come. That is how he wants it, but his daughter’s birth has a large shadow cast over it. One that stretches from King’s Landing all the way to the North from wing tip to wing tip. Peace has never come from a dragon’s mouth, never, and he was not about to let his ideal future be turned into soot and ash. His wife had deemed his paranoia uncalled for when he had arrived home, but she would never understand. He was there that day when Daenerys Targaryen ignored the bells. He was there when the sky came crashing down upon them in a rage of fire and fear. He was there when his brother disappeared amongst flames. The days that followed were grey, ash tumbling down from the sky, calm like snow but somehow worse than the heralding of winter. His paranoia was warranted completely, in his eyes at least, and the land should not even have to suffer the idea of another massacre like that once more. His children should not need to live in a world where it could ever happen again.  
“Do you hear, little one, your name shall be Summer,” Baron held her up closer, her small chubby hand reaching out to touch the scratchy stubble on his chin, “and all in Westeros will come to now it.” 

Hooves sloshed against the mud as several men spoke in unison, each muttering about the tools they had in their sacks and their aim as trained archers. Their bickering caused animals to dash from trees and bushes, straying for the path that was the beginning of Kingsroad. To Gillish, the path was the spine of the country and had seen many battles despite it simply being a dirt track. He figured it would be the best place to start tracking for a dragon as it took him directly through most of Westeros’ kingdoms. That being said, he did not expect to find the beast so easily. It was going to be a trial, no books detailing on how to track a dragon let alone the knight even having any idea. He expected charred carcasses in their masses to be found and maybe some scorched land but that was about it. If Drogon still remained in Westeros, then people would definitely have seen him. A dragon cannot simply disappear, especially one of his size. Jon Snow had said that the beast had picked up its ‘mother’ and flew off over Blackwater Bay. He, of course, was the only one that saw this. It was very likely that the bastard could have thrown the woman’s body into the bay and Drogon left having no reason to stay, but many claimed that Jon is practically incapable of lying- his siblings stating this. It was common knowledge that he was a Targaryen, but it might have been for the best that he went to go live beyond the Wall. If his story is true, then Drogon was most definitely in Essos and out of reach of Maenyra. Gillish had noted this in a letter he sent to Baron upon his return to the River Spires. As promised, Baron had responded immediately and simply put that it was more of a ‘cautionary venture’ to ensure that Drogon had not made himself a home here in Westeros. It was clear that he wanted his friend knight to travel to Essos once his search had been completed here. With a grumble, Gillish halted his horse with a brisk tug on the reigns, stopping his small party as well. Hayford Castle was in view, their first stop along the road. The windows were dark all except for one on the upper levels of the castle. It was an old structure with much history in its walls but many often overlooked it when the Lannisters dipped their hands into it. The shadows of the night scampered about as Gillish’s horse snorted. Turning to his men, he rubbed the sleep that began to form in his eyes and prayed that he would be able to rest in one of the beds in the castle. He was on a ‘noble quest’ after all.  
“This is our first stop, men, the first leg of our journey. If Lady Ermesande permits it, we shall camp here for the night. I know you are all tired and I apologise for beginning this travel at night, but we all know of our King’s strange abilities. The darkness was our best cover.”  
They all nodded in understanding, too excited with the prospect of killing a dragon to even put up a fuss. They knew not how they were to do it without any ballistae or sorcery, but there was always a chance the Gods, old and the new, would smile upon them in fortune. Gillish thought it was bullshit. The King wanted to leave the dragon alone where ever it was.  
‘It is the last one left. We mustn’t harm him.’  
Only a week being part of the council and Gillish was already committing treason. No, he wasn’t going to kill the dragon, was never planning to, only a fool would try to do so. Knowing its whereabouts would have to be good enough for Baron and the new peace that he kept speaking about. As long as that Valyrian girl never got the chance to touch the beast then the realm was safe. Her neck appeared to be breakable, easy and brittle like bark. She would snap in too without much effort. The party continued onward, approaching the castle at a tired pace as they came into the clearing, the night sky opening up for them. There were no shadows up there, none with wings the length of an entire tower. Hayford was quiet which was a welcome change from King’s Landing. 

Tyrion listened through the wooden doors, the guards giving him the side eye as he smiled. Muffled laughter wiggled through the miniscule gap between the doors which was followed by chatter. He tried to recall the last time he heard laughter in that room, certainly not while his family was living here. Bran had invited Maenyra to dinner again, in fact it had been this way for the past few nights. It was a common pattern, people knew what it meant, but Bran continued to deny it for any other reason other then keeping her here. It was obvious she was important for something, a task that even The Three-Eyed Raven was yet to gather, but that did not give reason to invite her to a literal feast each night. To Tyrion, Bran was indeed an enigma, someone a speculative person would absolutely distrust but he had little choice in the matter. Maenyra was here for a reason, not the one she had already sailed here for. No, fate had decreed something else. There was a saying in the North, that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but maybe there must always be a dragon in Westeros. When the remaining Targaryens fled, Jon was still here to serve the realm. Tyrion believed it. There was obviously a balance, a motion, a cycle outside of the wheel that Daenerys had destroyed, that governed this land. Fate was refilling the gaps that had been created by man’s ignorance. It was preparing.  
“Are they still in there?” Davos questioned as he approached Tyrion, Valter at his side.  
“Sssh, not so loud,” the dwarf scorned in reply, waving his hand towards his friend before leaning back against the door.  
The two old sailors rolled their eyes with a smile. It was passed midnight and the two nobles, who were often treated like children under their advisors, needed their sleep for the following days. The Hunt that Bran had requested was indeed in full swing and will begin tomorrow. Many questioned the King’s motives behind it, seeing that he himself had no interest in hunting but Bran’s reason was to see the Kingswood and allow his fellow noble men and knights enjoy themselves after a year of hard work. This did rouse participants, claiming that the King was incredibly kind for thinking of their satisfaction. Naturally, Maenyra was to accompany Bran as an esteemed guest of honour along with a handful of her own people. She hesitated, saying that it was not fit for a ruler to enjoy themselves with such luxuries whilst the rest of her people suffered, but nothing could truly be done until Yara offered her ships to the cause. That lingered on a letter that detailed her sailing to King’s Landing to see who this Queen was that desired her aid. However, such things can be dwelled upon after The Hunt.  
“She’s going to be crappy in the morning,” Valter whined, “Maenyra is not a morning person.”  
“Young love does not sleep,” Tyrion grinned.  
“Love? This quickly?” Davos questioned.  
“It happened with Jon and Daenerys. Who is to say it cannot happen again?”  
The three continued to bicker amongst themselves, the sailors dragging Tyrion away from the double doors as the night continued to linger on. The Lords and Ladies of the land drank in peace and the stars joined them.

When Maenyra at last returned to her chambers, the blushing colour of sweet wine on her cheeks and smile bold enough to put a court fool to shame, did she retire for the night. The alcohol that swam through her veins shushed her into a slumber deeper than death. There was nothing for some time, only darkness that gobbled up her thoughts and anxieties, a grateful emptiness that soothed her fatigue. She floated through a speckled, bleak landscape until a mumbling was heard. It was quiet on the wind, but it caused her to stir before there was snow at her feet. She could not feel it, but her mind told her it was freezing to touch and when her purple eyes opened, ice clawed at her cheeks and tore at her hair. There was only the haze of white, the idea of day as she could only assume this was the North. The blue hint that highlighted the frozen mountains, behind her the vague outline of a monolithic structure that stretched out along the horizon. It was taller than anything she had ever seen in Essos. The Wall, Maenyra gathered, am I beyond the Wall? It was tempting to walk onward, leave footprints where she never believed she would go and as she took her first step forward, her feet melted the snow around her. Grass, a healthy emerald colour, sprang forth from the ground to greet her. It continued this way, a track of life following her as she marched through the whipping snowstorm. What was the realm of the Night King, the land of endless Winter, was somehow beautiful in her eyes. There was power here, a secretive life similar to that of what she felt when she first stepped onto the docks of King's Landing. History rang through the air. Would she be back in time for the Hunt tomorrow? Most likely not at the pace she was keeping. As the snow parted for her, Maenyra’s curiosity sprang forth with grass, pushing her deeper into the heart of the True North. When at last she felt as though she had walked for hours, she came upon a white tree with crimson leaves and a face within its trunk. It was alone. She traced how the thick sap leaked from the carved eyes, the wind dying down as the flakes of snow floated now. A raven called to her from the branches, spurring her attention upwards.  
“Hello there,” she smiled to the bird, “what are you doing all the way out here by yourself?”  
The raven cocked its head to one side, three eyes blinking before cawing loudly to her; answering her question though she did not understand.  
“Is this your home? Are you lost?” she continued to muse, “the Wall is that way.”  
She pointed back along the path of green to where she assumed the Wall was, it was only a grey mist now. Where ever she had walked to was far from any known place of man and her memory did not seem to follow her here. There was only the North past the Wall, this tree, her and the raven. Again, it cawed at her but with what sounded more intently. She waved goodbye and pressed on, ignoring the cries of the raven. At one point it called her name in voice that was far too distant for her to remember. It was panicked, squawked with haste as she disappeared into the snow once more, leaving that strange tree and its one friend alone. Day turned to night and once again day as she continued to walk, the sun and moon in its endless cycle. She climbed over stony hills, slid across lakes and rivers, dashed between trees but she never starved. Maenyra never felt the pressing chill that attempted to leech into her body. It could only run its delicate fingers over her skin but never sink its claws in her flesh. She had noticed how the raven followed her, flying in the air above her, a black spot in the sky. Long had her memory left her, even her own name seemed foreign on her tongue as she sat on a rocky perch in the middle of a lake. The ice was thick, and she could skate if she pleased but there was something warm about the air that made her stop. There was a memory here, though not her own, it called to Maenyra. She wanted to cry for some odd reason and as the tears leaked down her face, they froze in placed like glittering diamonds. She missed her mother, wanted her mother. That was all that mattered… Her mother. A pinch in her neck caused her to hiss and stretch, trying to work it out of her muscles but it only felt as if it was bleeding. Fresh blood, black and viscous, coated her right shoulder as she opened her mouth to scream but no sound came. Mother can you hear me, she thought in her mind over and over, mother? Maenyra wanted to go back home, to Essos, to Meereen and bathe in the warm sunlight and fly along the rivers. His brothers would be there too, waiting for him as they always did. Mother would reach out for him, her tender eyes filling with joyful tears as she tells him how proud she is. You’re alright, Daenerys would smile, you are home. All together again just as it should have remained. Viserion. Her name was Viserion. His name was Viserion. 

Much like his brother, the spirit of a dragon lied in chains in the cold depths of darkness.


End file.
